


The Emotional Children

by MissHolmesOfGondor



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adlock, And Irene being flirty because she's funny like that, And Sherlock trying to keep calm, And maybe a wedding, And probably some kisses, Angst, But incredibly realistic, Characters true to canon, F/M, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Irene falls in love, Irene is a mess, Irene transforms, Irene's past is revealed, John and Sherlock were always just friends, Just Irene and Sherlock being in love, Moriarty is back, No Smut, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Post-Season/Series 04, Romance, Sherlock and Irene are together, Sherlock falls in love, Sherlock finds love, Sherlock is a Mess, post Karachi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-04 04:50:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 43
Words: 126,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21191855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissHolmesOfGondor/pseuds/MissHolmesOfGondor
Summary: Sherlock rescues Irene Adler from the hands of terrorists in Karachi, Pakistan: setting her free and securing a place in his heart for her. But after the said events at the conclusion of A Scandal in Belgravia, so much remains undisclosed about their interesting relationship: an adventure in Berlin in the wake of The Reichenbach Fall ties them closer together, prying open their icy hearts once more. But even later still, in the aftermath of The Final Problem, an old enemy returns to seal Sherlock's fate. Will the detective and the woman have the courage to trust one another and risk vulnerability as they join forces in more ways than one?Rated T for bits of sexual discussion and implications, language, and violence. In chapter three, a character recollects the struggle leading up to a rape (I don't write the gory, explicit sexual details of the rape). Post-Pakistan, Post-Reichenbach, Post-S4. Sticks to the canon, with author's own imagined Adlock possibilities. Full of Sherlockian action... :)





	1. When He Said "Run"

"When I say run, run."

Irene looked up at the tall, stately figure of her supposed executioner. His voice was warm, refined, and English through and through. His eyes were all that were visible of his face, but they and the familiarity of his voice said enough.

It was him.

The relief was more than she could bear. One tear tracked a path down her thin face. He had come, and she was saved. She had not the slightest hope or the faintest idea of it, and yet here he was. She was free. Sentiment had gotten the better of them both before, but she was grateful for it this time.

The men at their firing positions in the large, sandy tanks jerked backwards, sniped simultaneously from behind. The other jihadists panicked, some drawing their swords, and others, their machine guns. Sherlock, his sword already raised must have given the others the impression that he was about to sever her head from her shoulders. Instead, he severed the head of the man standing behind him. It fell beside her on the floor, and she raised an eyebrow, eyeing it with an impressed expression.

Except now his cover was blown.

"Run!" Sherlock shouted.

The woman ran. Ran as fast as her legs could carry her. Passing the decapitated man, she seized the sword from his still warm hands and carried it with her.

For luck.

The word "run" was undoubtedly a code as well, for as soon as Sherlock had yelled it, shots erupted from the rooftops, mowing down the terrorists below. Her captors fell to the ground left and right. This had been well-planned.

Swords clashed behind her, slicing through flesh as she sprinted off. Men grunted, shouted, swore. They would be after her soon; she was a wanted criminal.

Once out of the range of fire and after she rounded a few deserted corners, she stopped and looked about her. Spotting a nearby bush, she ran to it and concealed herself inside. The dark color of her burqa would do much to disguise her presence. She hoped.

Once hidden, she had only one thought: Sherlock Holmes.

After what seemed to be an eternity, the far-off noise subsided, and she dared to look up. Bodies lay scattered on the hard-packed earth, only a few still standing. Searching their figures, she chuckled as she recognized the inexplicable figure of her own clever detective without his funny hat. He walked briskly, looking this way and that. The others disbanded, following the orders of their leader, whose sword was still drawn. Instead of bursting out upon him, she pulled out her mobile phone and sent a text: "bushes."

Sherlock stopped, read the text, deleted it, walked a few paces, and then squinted in her general direction.

"Do people really hide in bushes like the idiots in stories?" he mused. She recognized the moment when he caught sight of her, his eyes sharpening in recognition.

"Sometimes," she spat, trying to sound annoyed.

Her burqa was quite caught on the branches and it made her efforts to stand fruitless. Sherlock smirked underneath his garbs. The bush had ripped her head covering off, but the rest of her garments were still intact. Her thick, brown tresses fell over her shoulders, something she knew would soften and refine her ordinarily sharp features. Standing upright and looking at him, Irene Adler never looked so resolved.

"There's really no use in wearing this anymore, I suppose—it's horribly irritating," he complained, jerking the covering from his head, to expose his face and a nest of unruly, raven black hair.

She was supposed to be his enemy now, and he was supposed to be in London. Why was he here? Did he even know why he was here? She had a sneaking suspicion that she knew his motive for saving her, but if she were being honest, she wanted to hear him say it.

Yes, she would make him say it.

"Why?"

There, she had said it. Blurted it. It was out now; she'd spoken her mind. She would hear it from him. Why should Sherlock Holmes care if she lived or died? Why had he saved her life?

"Because it was making me sweat, that's why," Sherlock said, rubbing the sides of his head and ruffling his hair. He was about to open his mobile but Irene seized his sleeve.

"No. I mean...why?" she repeated. He looked at her, then at the sleeve she had in an iron grip.

He didn't say anything for a moment, until, as if thinking out loud, he said, "People always want to know why; and I think I'm the chief of sinners among them. Trying to explain reasons, motives of revenge, sentiment, violence, greed, jealousy...love. Why?" he broke off, as if thinking. Then he continued, barely above a whisper, "Forgive me, brother dear."

"Tell me. I will know," Irene declared, letting a look of cunning spread over her face.

"I thought it was fairly obvious as to why," he answered curtly.

There was a moment of silence. Neither one of them said a word.

Irene cleared her throat. "Well then," she said, sauntering closer, "I want to hear you say it."

She was only an arm's length from him, looking up into his eyes with mischief in her own. He was in her grip—she had him now. He had to say it; that thought was so delicious that a triumphant crept onto her lips.

"Say what?"

"Come now, Mr. Holmes, let's not be vapid."

"If we're not going to be vapid, then answer me this."

"Answer you what?"

"How did I ever guess the four letters that opened your mobile phone?"

She swallowed, then shrugged—a feeble attempt to appear unaffected.

"Lucky guess."

"Sure?" Sherlock asked, taking a step closer.

"If we're not going to be vapid, we might as well use reason. I chose those four letters for I understood the reason you had: you love me—" She sucked in her breath. "—and I knew it from the elevation of your pulse and the dilation of your pupils as you sat with me by the fire in Baker Street.

"If you care to be rational, then it is a fairly obvious conclusion that the present circumstances illustrate the same, yet you're not taking my pulse or watching my pupils at the moment, are you? I think it obvious: a well-planned attack on a terrorist base in Karachi, Pakistan, all to rescue a woman who thought she cared for no one and thought no one cared for her. If that were true, why is she still alive?"

"Tell me if you're such a clever boy," she cajoled, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I'd rather hear you use your brain," he replied, seemingly impervious to her charms.

Irene let go of his sleeve, took another step closer—close enough that her breath ruffled his hair—and gasped, "Oh, Mr. Holmes...." Taking his hands in her own, she whispered, "Say it—just say it. I'll say it, too, if it makes you feel better." Her voice was full of deep earnestness.

She whispered into his ear, "I love you."

He reddened, probably against his will. He looked at her, looked away, then back at her.

He was so determined not to say it, wasn't he? But still, his face was only inches from hers and there was something like magnetic energy between them.

She stared into his eyes with silent yearning, and his stiff, rigid face bent slightly towards hers. Her lips parted. Her eyes closed. She most certainly would have kissed him had not the sound of voices shouting in Arabic interrupted the moment.

"Too late...again," Irene breathed, excruciatingly disappointed.

"That's not the end of the world...but it's not Mrs. Hudson either," he quipped, grinning roguishly and taking her hand.

Sprinting off into the night, he led the way, Irene gripping his hand and keeping up with astonishing speed. The voices were still confused behind them; so they knew they had not been found out. Sherlock led her down darkened alleyways and deserted streets. What an odd pair they made, the detective and the woman, each one grasping the other's hand tight, running through the deserted, midnight streets of Karachi, Pakistan.

The local market was in their path. A few vendors still remained open, although most had retired for the night. Scurrying by the few buyers and sellers still awake, he led her through the dwindling crowd.

A jeweler burst out in front of them holding up a necklace. Sherlock sputtered angrily, came to a halt, and Irene slammed into him in the process.

"A lovely necklace, for your wife," the man said, leering at Irene.

"No, no—sorry," Sherlock spat, as he shoved the merchant aside and dragged Irene along with him.

They dashed past darkened buildings and retreated into the darkness of an alley. Irene opened her mouth to speak, but Sherlock put his finger to his lips. Irene listened for the raucous sound of raised voices in between her pulsing heartbeat. There was a commotion afar off; the terrorists were searching the bazaar.

"Your wife...mmm...I confess, I rather enjoyed the way that sounded," she mused, looking up at him with dancing eyes. She still managed to maintain that rather coaxing tone of voice even though she was badly out of breath. He, however, managed to act completely preoccupied, to her dismay.

"I easily could get used to being called 'Mrs. Holmes.' 'Mrs. Holmes...' Oh, God, that does sound good, doesn't it? Will I get to wear my own hat?"

"Oh, shut up," Sherlock snapped, scowling at Irene's flirtatious expression. She smirked.

He opened his mobile phone and texted a few words to a number Irene could not make out. Was he communicating with whoever planned to help them with the next part of their escape—whatever that might be?

A black car pulled up beside them, and a man in a dark coat opened the backseat, motioning for them both to enter the car. Sherlock smiled, took Irene's hand, and ushered her inside.

The driver took off at a ferocious speed. They came to the edge of the city; they were driving on the M-9 now, the "Hyderabad" motorway. There were no cars behind them, nor any ahead, and peace settled over Irene. Where were they going—and what would they do when they got there? She laid her head on Sherlock's breast and closed her eyes, letting tranquility wash over her weary body.

Ah, but wait. This was a good opportunity.

Yes.

Before letting herself laze about, she straightened and pressed her lips to her savior's sweaty cheek.

The savior in question said nothing as she settled back down onto his breast.

But she didn't sleep.

Sherlock smiled. The car was dark, so the woman couldn't see the amusement on his face. He had done it. He had saved the woman. Why should he care? What did it matter? As Mycroft had indeed told him, "All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage." It wasn't an advantage. Surely his brother was correct in saying so. So why, if all lives end and all hearts are broken, did he bother saving this woman's life? She was nasty, to tell the truth. But maybe he did love her. Maybe he did love this quiet creature resting on his chest...this small and yet incredibly vile soul taking breaths in and out restfully in his arms. He did care. He would always care. No matter where he was in the end, he would always have a place in his heart (and his mind palace) for Irene Adler.

...

Two hours later, the car stopped.

They were now in the outskirts of Hyderabad, another of Pakistan's large cities.

Their driver opened the door and bright lights poured into the darkened car. Holding her hands over her eyes as she stepped out, Irene coughed as wind beat into her face mercilessly. Dust flew about in clouds, and she squinted in the bright Arabian moonlight. A helicopter had just landed near the car, and she saw what was to happen.

"Kiss a girl, why don't you?" she asked, batting her eyelashes and accentuating her lips.

Sherlock huffed a laugh, dismissing the idea. She frowned and tutted once, but looked him square in the eyes before letting go of his arm.

"I will not forget, Mr. Holmes," she said, looking into his face and stroking his cheek with an outstretched forefinger. "Thank you," she breathed, letting go and gazing into his face triumphantly. Perhaps Sherlock would sense the true gratitude bubbling inside of her, just as he sensed everything else.

Before walking away she added, "But we're not done, are we?"

Sherlock smirked. The expression travelled up to touch his eyes and so clearly, silently replied, "not by a long shot."

And with that, Irene's mouth broke into a smile.

Irene laid back against the peeling, leather seats of the helicopter. She shut her eyes, almost surprised that she was not crying. She pulled out her mobile phone and texted Sherlock one last time. Clever words, as always.

As the cab drove away, Sherlock's mobile sensually "sighed" as it often did, and he smiled inwardly. The new message read, "I love you Mr Holmes." He didn't respond; it was almost flirting not to, but in truth he didn't know what to say. In fact, before stepping through the door of 221b Baker Street, he deleted the text for fear of John or Mycroft discovering it.


	2. The Berlin Incident

Pakistan was a year ago.

She was still alone, hungry, and dangerous.

But at present, she was crying. News had done something to crack her cold, violent mind, and now she was covering her mouth trying not to sob.

He was dead.

He had killed himself.

She didn't cry for people; she never cried for people. Everyone came and went in her life. She never let herself get attached, and people never meant anything to her. Pleasure was abundant. Emotional attachments were foreign. Kate had been dead a year, and when Irene found her hanging by a rope from the closet door, no tear graced her cheek. She sighed, surely, but her eyes never once watered. Even that one author, whose reputation she had destroyed with her fun and games, was ruined forever, but she didn't mind. Why should she?

She was in Berlin, not London, but news traveled fast, especially when it concerned the internationally reputed consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes. It had happened only yesterday. He had been alive, then. But now he was dead. He had jumped from the rooftop of the St. Bartholomew's Hospital building.

Why?

But the woman was by no means stupid. She knew it was something to do with that obsessive maniac, James Moriarty. He had paid her well for her work, yet she never fully trusted him. He was dead, too, it seemed. Blew his own brains out on the rooftop of the same hospital Sherlock had fallen from. She wondered what had happened in their last moments.

She was hungry. Dressing in a blue evening gown, she prepared herself for a meal at the Hotel Quarré.

Ah, dinner.

It made her think of the many times she had flirted with him.

Just when she had thought "perhaps he might pop in," it turned out he was dead.

She was staying in the Hotel Adlon Kempinski and could see The Brandenburg Gate from her suite window. Although her life's work had been ruined, she was not stupid enough to not have anything saved. She had money, so she could easily afford the luxury Berlin hotel. The Hotel Quarré, then, was equally luxurious. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and the tables were sumptuously set with linen placings.

She was given a seat and gloomily, she waited to be served.

She sat for about five minutes and began to wonder. The empty minutes of nothing made her mind begin to fog with thoughts of the detective. If she had been back in her room she most certainly would have been weeping. Sentiment. Indeed, what a chemical defect this was, ceaselessly pouring over her like a river flows over a boulder.

Her phone buzzed on the glass table.

She picked it up, unlocked it, and gasped as she read what it said and who it was from:

I'm not dead, let's have dinner.

SH

Of all the dirty tricks she had expected him to play, this one was the furthest from her mind. She replied, and they texted in banter. Her fingers bled fire as she formed each response with intense agility:

Yes, let's. Where are you?

Where do you think?

SH

Can you see me?

Do you think I'm that stupid?

SH

I was only asking.

You're sitting under a chrystal chandelier that was

bought in Mumbai, by the looks of it. You're wearing

a blue dress, black heels, and a sorrowful tear-stained face.

SH

Oh, shut up and join me. I'd much rather

hear it than read it.

It?

SH

Yes. I'd much rather hear you than

read you.

Fine.

SH

She looked up, but no one appeared. She may have jumped just a little when the sides of her chair were suddenly gripped by two white hands, and Mr. Sherlock Holmes stepped out from behind and took the seat opposite her.

She was trying not to smile. She tried to look as sultry and conniving as she could, but it was difficult to do so.

"Guten tag," he said. "Good day." He did not want to be caught speaking English, especially since it would expose his being a foreigner, which could lead to the discovery that he was not genuinely dead. Speaking German made him blend in with the locals, as did his clothing, which made him look alarmingly like a Berliner.

"Saukerl," Irene scolded. "You dirty pig."

"At least I texted you a warning before I faked mine," she quipped, still speaking in German and fiddling with the corners of her napkin compulsively.

"Why would it bother you?" he replied, narrowing his eyes with mock scrutiny.

"How did you do it?" she asked, ignoring his question and raising her eyebrows.

"As if I'd tell you," he remarked.

She decided to humor him and dropped the subject entirely.

"You mentioned dinner?" Irene asked.

"Starving," Sherlock replied, but he wasn't stupid. He just enjoyed teasing on purpose.

Catching the gleam in her eye, he acted surprised. Shaking his head as if he had accidentally forgotten what he knew she really meant, he remarked, "No, sorry; I meant real dinner. I'm starving. Physically starving."

She rolled her eyes.

"Like I said before, Jim used to call you—"

"The virgin," he finished for her. "You were quite clear on that point."

"I was clear on a lot of points."

"So was I."

She looked at him intently. Mischief fogging up her face once more. The corners of her mouth were playing a game and trying to decide if they should form a smile. She ended up sticking with serene.

"I think that's what I like about you, Mr. Holmes. You're always the good boy."

"I am what I am," Sherlock replied, looking at his watch with an irritated expression.

A few moments of uncomfortable silence passed, and it is true to say that it was incredibly awkward. But Irene would not take it back. What she had said was true: she always loved the good boy.

"I read one of Dr Watson's stories yesterday. I rather enjoyed it. The Hounds of Baskerville. I found it quite entertaining. It's adorable—the way he talks about you," she mused.

"He's fond of romanticizing my job and exposing my thinking process for the whole damn world to idolize."

"Temper, temper," Irene cooed, shaking her head and pursing her lips.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked her, studying her face.

"Never you mind me; what brings you to Berlin?" she asked, answering his question with a question. "Running errands for big brother?"

"As it so happens, yes," Sherlock replied, unfolding his napkin and putting it on his lap.

"Moriarty may be dead, but he has terrorist cells all around the globe. Mycroft has me on certain assignments to bring them down from the inside out. I'll be away from London for quite a while."

"Do you think you'll ever go back?" Irene asked, the only sincere question she had raised all night.

"I don't know. If I'm killed, then I'll still be dead to everyone, so it wouldn't matter anyway...but if I succeed, and I am needed at home again, I suppose I would be called back. I can't imagine that being less than a few years or so. Who knows?" Sherlock attempted a smile, but it was more of a look of acceptance than genuine enthusiasm.

"And that's why you're in Berlin?"

"Yes. Catching one of Moriarty's puppets. In fact, you'll most likely meet him tonight. He's going up to your room in two hours, I'd say."

"My room?" Irene looked like someone who is unexpectedly doused in ice water.

"Yes, and it's your job to make him feel at home there. Do what you do best."

"What makes you think you can trust me?"

"You owe me a favor, and you're not the type to accept favors. You need an opportunity to repay me. Here it is. Besides, there's no reason for you to try anything stupid on me. Moriarty's dead."

She nodded. He had a fair argument.

"What exactly are you asking me to do?" she quizzed, narrowing her eyes and drumming her fingers on the table.

"I spoke with the man this morning. He trusts me completely, as I made myself sympathetic towards his cause. I've been in his company for quite some time, associating, doing as I'm told, winning his confidence. He is oblivious. Human error worked in my favor. He felt depressed this morning. Told him I knew someone who could give him a good night. Told him it would cost a bit, but he didn't mind. Anything to fill the void. That's where you come in."

"You don't know me well enough to assume I'm an object to fill a void. I don't fill voids. I accentuate them. How did you know where to find me?"

"You honestly think I'd tell you? The same way I found you in Karachi."

"Fine, then. Keep your secrets."

A waiter came to the table, and Sherlock ordered a bottle of Spätburgunder (Pinot Noir) for them both. Irene was delighted he had ordered so fine a red wine.

"What are we celebrating?" Her face was bright with alacrity.

"Tonight's results."

"Which are?"

"The destruction of a terror cell."

"Then why are we drinking wine instead of formulating a plan?"

"The plan is already formulated."

"Then tell me," she put her elbows on the table and leaned toward him, "what are we going to do?"

Sherlock took his first sip of wine and divulged their night's itinerary.

...

Klaus Schreiber arrived at Irene's room at half past midnight. She certainly wasn't wearing anything suggestive when he knocked on her door. Nevertheless, she acted genuinely pleased to see him there.

"Hallo," the dark-haired German croaked as she opened the door. He was immaculately tall, which initially frightened Irene, though she managed to conceal her apprehension incredibly well. He was not a young man, by any means, and she found this disappointing. He had scruffy, prickly black hair around his face and startling grey eyes. His lips were dreadfully cracked, and when he opened his mouth to speak, it was like watching a rusty door swing on its hinges...it looked painful.

Irene could tell from his appearance that he had incredibly low self-esteem. His hygiene was practically falling apart, which spelled out lack of interest in anything related to self-care. He had bags under his eyes. Fatigue. Depressed, insecure, tired. She knew the type. He was a stupid one.

This would be easy.

"Wie geht's, Fraulein?" he asked. He was inside now. "How are you, miss?"

"Hallo," Irene replied, her voice rich and sultry. She put on her best face and took off the man's coat for him.

"I've been expecting you, sir. Please, do come in. Make yourself at home. I'll prepare a cup of tea for you whilst I go and change. I always prefer changing after I meet my clients. Unveiling myself in all my glory following the introduction always makes for a clever effect."

She winked.

The man nodded eagerly, with a crooked smile on his face. He was missing some teeth. His face made Irene's stomach wobble within her. How ugly. How would the Germans say it? Ekelhaft!

She swept elegantly into the kitchen and put a kettle on.

"What's your name, darling?" she asked, spooning honey into the cup and throwing in a bag of chamomile.

"Klaus," he replied, taking off his shoes. His socks were filthy. Irene turned around and rumpled her nose.

"Klaus...Klaus...that's quite an attractive name," she purred. Flattery always worked on men like Klaus.

"Danke, Liebling," he replied. "Thank you, darling."

The kettle whistled.

Pouring the tea into the cup, Irene glanced toward the clock on the wall. Ten minutes. Ten minutes before she needed this idiot on the floor. She could do it in less.

"You must excuse my not having any leaves. Only bags at the moment. You don't mind, do you?" she asked, stirring the liquid with a silver spoon.

From what Irene could tell, Klaus shook his head. His shirt was stuck over his head, and Irene's eyes rolled in their sockets as she saw the myriad of hair on his chest. You could knit a blanket with all that hair, she decided. Ekelhaft indeed!

He somehow managed to come out of his shirt alive, and took the cup from Irene. He made a motion toward her waist, but she smacked his hand and smiled. He seemed to enjoy it. She tried not to gag.

"In due time, Klaus. I'll return in a moment. Enjoy the tea first."

She could tell there was not a hint of apprehension in his body. He was completely calm. His shoulders were relaxed, his breathing steady, his face not contorted or discolored. He was perfectly comfortable.

He put the tea to his lips.

With that, she walked away.

Her hips swayed as she pointedly strutted towards the bathroom. Her clothing was all organized in the walk-in closet, which she shut herself in. She locked the door.

She checked her watch. Three minutes until he's out from the time the tea touches his lips.

Her phone buzzed. She read the new message.

Is he out?

SH

I love how you sign your initials

after every text. Looks fun.

IA

Is the man out?

SH

Patience, darling, I only just left.

I'm in the closet. Appx 3 mins

IA

Remember, play along just in case.

SH

Let me dress myself first.

IA

She placed her phone on one of the cabinets and laughed inwardly as she heard it buzz a few more times. How impatient the poor devil was. She slipped into a thin, satin nightgown trimmed with lace that exposed most of her back. That was hardly what she would have called lingerie, but she still had a job to do, and it would suffice. She took the pins out of her hair, brushed it, and let it fall over her bare shoulders. A spray of perfume would do nicely, as well. She didn't want to overdo it, but she applied a touch of liner and lipstick for a reaction from Mr. Holmes. Oh no, she wasn't doing this part solely for the act.

But wait!

She mustn't forget the shawl. Her back was quite attractive, but her right shoulder certainly was not at present.

Her watch was at four minutes past since she had last checked it, and she knew she was ready to make her entrance. She texted:

Here I come

IA

Bursting out of the closet like a queen strutting out onto a balcony before her kingdom, Irene Adler made her way toward the man Klaus Schreiber, who had dropped his cup and looked dead on the floor.

"Ach, mein Gott!" she breathed. "Oh my God!" She dropped to the floor and put her hand to the man's neck to check his pulse.

At that moment, Sherlock opened the door to the room with a pair of handcuffs and a suitcase of immense proportions.

"Well done, Ms Adler," Sherlock hurriedly announced, grabbing the man's arms and pulling them behind his back.

"I know," she asserted, looking into his face to see if he noticed her freshly painted face.

"What did you give him?"

"Small dose of ketamine. Works like a charm. Always has. We have about four hours at most, I'd say...before he comes to. An hour at the least."

"You've used it before?"

"Of course. Loads of times."

"Help me pack him into this," Sherlock uttered, zipping open the suitcase. Irene seized the man's shoulders and Sherlock picked up his feet. Together, they lugged him into the baggage. He fit snugly. If he were to wake, he would have been incredibly claustrophobic.

They zipped it closed.

"Let's go," Sherlock commanded, setting the suitcase upright and leaning on the handle. "And do put on something decent," he scoffed. "I have a feeling it's not exactly customary to wear lingerie in the streets of Berlin."

Annoyance clouded her thoughts.

"It's not lingerie, Mr. Holmes. But it can be if you want it to be," she replied, strutting up to him and leaning on his arm.

"Please," he breathed in exasperation, rolled his eyes, and looked towards the door.

Without another word, she stomped back toward the closet and changed into a blue dress. She wrapped herself in her favorite fur coat and slipped on her black heels.

Sherlock was holding the door open with his foot when she returned.

She positioned herself directly in front of his face and slapped her hand on the door to block his path.

"Someday, you will want it to be," she retorted, defiantly staring into his face with determination. Sherlock met her gaze without flinching. Without taking her eyes off his, she spoke.

"But there's more important things to do now," she said, turning around and marching out of the room.

They waited for the elevator in complete silence.

The elevator came.

They entered.

Still silence.

They reached the first floor. He offered her his arm. She took it with a triumphant smirk on her face. Better than nothing, she decided.

Sherlock rolled the suitcase behind him as they walked out towards the front doors and ordered a taxi. Irene held his arm.

They waited on the street in silence for nearly ten minutes before a taxi arrived. Sherlock opened the door for Irene. She climbed in while he put their luggage in the trunk. He followed in after her and shut the door.

"Wohin?" the driver asked, addressing Sherlock. "Whereto?"

"Kotti," Sherlock replied. The driver stared at Irene with angst, then turned his back and began to drive.

"You sure you want to take the lady there at this time of night, sir?"

"Fahren, bitte." Sherlock coldly responded. "Drive, please."

He shut the window between the front and backseats. The driver didn't even stir.

"Kottbusser Tor.... My, my, what have you gotten me into, Mr. Holmes?"

Kottbusser Tor was a district known to most Berliners as the sketchiest place in the city. The train station in particular, which was termed "Kotti" by the locals, was home to pickpockets, murderers, and some of Berlin's craftiest criminal minds.

"There's an apartment complex in the neighborhood where the terrorists have settled. I've already informed my brother of the location. Their leader is in the trunk. We have them under our thumbs."

"I'm sure Mr. Holmes the elder will be pleased to see the dominatrix back from the dead. Believe it or not, he flattered me more than you ever did. What was it he said of me? 'The dominatrix who brought a nation to its knees.' How true. That was a line I intended to put on my website before things went to hell with my camera phone."

"My brother knows nothing of your existence, so I prefer you let me approach that topic if it arises."

"If? You must allow me at least a little bit of room to misbehave, Mr. Holmes. It's no fun surprising someone when you can't see their reaction to the surprise."

"Misbehaving comes with consequences, Miss Adler."

"Only if you get caught, Mr. Holmes," she whispered in his ear.

He kept his head straight, but eyed her out of the corner of his eye with what looked to be annoyance. She, on the other hand, was simpering slyly. She saw that the moment was too good to miss, so she pecked his cold cheek while she was at it.

Sherlock said nothing.

The car stopped at Kotti station five minutes later. The drive had taken no time at all before they arrived. Despite the hour being so late, Kottbusser Tor was still a hub of activity. Sherlock thanked the driver and hauled their luggage out of the trunk.

After she took his arm again, Sherlock led Irene across the street and down Adalbertstraße toward an Indian restaurant that appeared to be closed for the night. Sherlock, however, had a key, and explained that the men they were looking for lived above the establishment.

"You may need this," Sherlock noted, revealing a handgun he pulled from the front pocket of the suitcase. He gestured for her to take it.

She eyed him with an injured expression.

"Surely you don't think me that stupid, Mr. Holmes," she replied, reaching into her purse and revealing a revolver of her own.

"Oh, you do mean to impress tonight, don't you?" Sherlock asked, pleased by her own cleverness. Irene did not respond, but smiled at her own intuition.

"Common sense. That's all, really. Shall we go in?"

"Yes. Just a minute. This way..." his voice trailed off as she trotted after him towards the alley behind the restaurant.

"Can't attract attention, and I need to send a text."

"Ah, of course."

He tapped send and pocketed his phone.

"When will he get here?" Irene inquired, examining her nails by the light of a nearby streetlamp.

"Any moment," Sherlock whispered, scanning the alleyway for potential threats.

"Ah, another dragon slain," crowed a familiar, supercilious voice.

"Evening, Mycroft," Sherlock replied, advancing toward the figure sauntering down the alley, an umbrella in hand.

"Rather slow, aren't we brother mine? Two days longer than the last one. I hope you haven't let yourself become distracted."

"Oh, I wouldn't call myself much of a distraction, would you, Mr. Holmes?"

Irene stepped out of the shadows and stood with haughty triumph beside Sherlock.

"No, I don't think so. The word I would use is nuisance," Mycroft replied, his words horribly salty.

"No surprises then? You...knew?" Sherlock asked, seemingly having suspected this reaction from his brother.

"Of course I bloody knew. How stupid do you find me?" Mycroft retorted, a forced smile splitting his pale face.

"Just a little," Sherlock responded. Mycroft's smile twitched into a frown resembling a bent pipe cleaner. He was not amused at his brother's sarcasm.

"Hilarious," he breathed, huffing in annoyance. "Now, if you don't mind returning to the matter at hand, we have much more important things to do."

"I agree," Irene piped up, standing akimbo, her eyes wide with enthusiasm.

"Let's not waste time on trivialities, little brother," Mycroft scolded.

Sherlock refused to be ordered.

"No, how did you know, and what have you done about it? And why would you make John go through all that trouble of telling me she was in a 'witness protection scheme in America?'"

"I did not know immediately of her 'rescue,' but I was sent some sensitive information from my informants in Kiev about six months later that she was, in fact, alive. You can imagine how stupid I felt."

"Vividly," Sherlock replied.

Mycroft's lips twitched again.

"So, we gave her work to do. I brought her in. She's much too dangerous to have against us, so I 'recruited' her, in every sense of the word. She's been running little errands for me these last few years."

"Ah," Sherlock breathed, glancing at the woman.

"That's why you wouldn't tell me your business in Berlin. You're working for" (here he turned to Mycroft) "the British Government."

"Precisely," she sighed, as if waiting for him to arrive at that obvious conclusion.

"I thought it was about time for a heartwarming little reunion...eh, Sherlock?" Mycroft teased, standing as if there was sand in his trousers.

"Don't be absurd," Sherlock retorted, turning his head and letting his eyes tip upward in perturbation.

"Have you got our infamous Herr Schreiber, then? I hope Miss Adler's charms proved useful to you," Mycroft replied, examining the tip of his umbrella with a preoccupied air.

"Yes, we do," Irene asserted, taking the suitcase from Sherlock's possession and sliding it towards him. "And yes, I think they did," Irene added, returning to her place beside Sherlock and sliding her hands around his arm.

Mycroft took the suitcase from the handle with the tips of his fingers, just as if it had been a dirty piece of underwear.

"Mmm...yes...and he's...?"

"Inside, of course," Irene finished for him.

"Just so," Mycroft concluded. Zipping open the case and spying a few facial features, he wrinkled his nose and zipped it closed just as quickly as he had opened it.

He put his phone to his ear after dialing a number.

"Yes. The suitcase is ready to be boarded, that's certain. Thank you."

Irene cocked her head in interest.

"Who was that?"

He eyed her suspiciously.

"Let's wake up Sleeping Beauty, shall we?" Mycroft asked, ignoring Irene's question entirely. "You do the honors, Miss Adler."

Irene's heels clacked on the asphalt as she strode toward the suitcase, knelt down, and zipped it open. She motioned at Sherlock to help her.

"Rise and shine, big boy," she cooed, close to the sleeping German's ear.

"He might not come to. I gave him a small dose, but he might be out for a few more hours. Unless we try harder—" she smacked him across the face. Then she pommeled his face into her knee. She plugged his nose and covered his mouth.

He gasped for breath. He was definitely awake now.

"Get the gag, Mr. Holmes," Irene ordered Sherlock. He produced a handkerchief from his pocket.

"Morning, dear," Irene breathed, tying the gag around the man's head. He was still groggy, but he eyed her with a furious glare.

"Sie Hure!" he spat. "You whore!"

"No one likes a spoil sport, Herr Schreiber," she replied, tightening the knot at the back of his head with gusto. It was then that he realized his hands were tied.

"I'll take it from here, Miss Adler," Mycroft interfered, taking the man's handcuffed wrists and standing him upright.

"Und verfluche dich!" he screamed at Sherlock through his gag. "And curse you!"

"You had it coming, Herr Schreiber. Thanks for dinner last week."

The man's eyes were bleeding hate. Two men came jogging up the alley, both in black suits and dark glasses. They took Schreiber by his arms and took him back toward the Indian restaurant Sherlock and Irene had passed. There were men clad in bullet proof vests all around, sporting guns. A helicopter hovered overhead and shone its light into the window of the apartment.

A magnified voice filled the air. "Show yourselves! You are surrounded!"

Someone peeked through the curtains of the apartment. Irene was watching the scene when Sherlock grabbed her wrist.

"Naughty boy; what are you—?" she didn't finish. Irene was being pulled along after Sherlock at a mad dash.

A man had just jumped out of the side window and no one had been there to guard that exit. The other exits were surrounded, but not this one.

"Someone get that window!" Sherlock hollered, and two men came running. Irene's heels clapped the floor as she ran alongside him. They could see the criminal up ahead, sprinting for his life.

"STOP!" Sherlock yelled, taking out his gun. Irene was quicker.

A gunshot split the air.

The man clutched at his calf. His hand was bloody.

"Good shot," Sherlock said through pants for air.

"Yes, it was, wasn't it?" she replied, also breathing heavily.

They ran towards him, and Sherlock seized his wrists. He was not strong enough. The man jerked his hands from Sherlock's grasp and pulled Irene's leg out from under her and twisted her foot around deliberately in an attempt to sprain it. She fell on her back.

She moaned as her back hit the floor.

"Aghh!" She arched her back, her weight in her elbows. It was as if she was afraid for her shoulders to touch the ground. She put her hand on the asphalt to steady herself. Sherlock looked at her curiously and held out his hand.

She smacked it and tried to stand. Her twisted ankle wouldn't hold weight. She took his hand with reluctance.

"Bad back, is it?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I did just fall on hard asphalt, Mr. Holmes; I would think crying out upon impact is a mere reflex, not a symptom of a bad back," she hissed.

"Here," he said, sitting her down on the asphalt. "Let me get to him."

She sat down and held her ankle in her hand. It was maddening to prove useless.

Sherlock sat on top of him and held his hands behind his back. A man came running from the crime scene they had left behind. He handed Sherlock a pair of handcuffs.

"Alles gut?" Sherlock asked him. "All good?"

"Ja," the man replied. The mission had been a success.

The agent took the rogue in his custody and returned with him to the crime scene.

Irene rubbed her ankle and winced. The truth was, it had never really been sprained. The man had indeed attempted to twist it, but that had been all; a mere attempt. She decided to use this stroke of luck to her advantage.

Sherlock helped her to her foot and she put her arm around his shoulder. He held her up and she hopped back toward the crime scene.

Men were being hauled away in black cars, and curious pajama-clad civilians were coming to watch. Mycroft spotted them returning and strutted over, once more swinging his umbrella and leaning on it like a cane.

"The dragons slayer returns; this time with the lady," Mycroft sarcastically stated.

"Oh, shut up," Sherlock barked. He was not in the mood.

"I need to get Miss Adler back to her hotel room. She—," Sherlock was cut short.

"She what? Please don't tell me you have things planned, brother mine." He made a few "tut tut" noises with his tongue.

"Again, shut up!" Sherlock was irate. His breathing was a sure sign of his inner exasperation. Irene stroked his shoulder. It felt nice.

"She sprained her ankle. It needs medical attention."

"She can't get 'medical attention.' Don't be daft, Sherlock." Mycroft rebuked.

"Which, if you were listening, is why I told you I need to get her back to the hotel room. Who's daft now, brother dear?"

"Boys, please; save it for the schoolyard." Irene leaned harder on Sherlock. She had an injured limb and needed some well-deserved attention! God, men were so thoughtless.

"Come along, Miss Adler," he said, carrying her towards the curb where they could get a cab. Mycroft taunted after them, "Enjoy your...evening."

Sherlock hailed a cab as it drove by, and they clambered inside. He made sure he kept all pressure or obstructions from her foot. He wanted to humor her performance. He wasn't stupid either, and he knew a faked sprain when he saw it. She acted it well, but he was too clever.

"God, it hurts," Irene winced, pulling her heel off and rubbing her soles.

"I should think so, the way the man twisted it," Sherlock replied, examining her naked foot. He reached out to touch it, but she drew it away. Yes, she was faking.


	3. The Death of the Dominatrix

Sherlock helped her as they made their way back to her room. She had her arm around his neck and was leaning on him as they slowly entered the suite. She was happy with the state of things.

As soon as Sherlock managed to get the door open, he strode over towards the bed and laid her down upon it. Propping her up against the pillows, he pulled down the blankets and covered her.

As he drew back, she seized his forearms to keep him from leaving.

Sherlock looked at her and saw dilated pupils.

He remembered how she had fallen on the sidewalk and winced when her back hit the ground. He decided to play along and try for information.

"Your ankle isn't sprained."

"Of course it isn't."

She pulled him down so that he knelt beside the bed.

"I've not the time for your trifles, Miss Adler."

She sat up.

"Why not? Just one trifle?" she quizzed, reaching out and fondling his cheek.

He wasn't sure what to do at this point. She pulled him closer so that his face was only inches from hers.

"Let's have dinner," she wooed.

His visage didn't change. He just stared into her face unblinkingly. The moment felt strangely familiar. He remembered when they had sat like this by the fire at 221b, each one holding the other's hands and getting lost in the other's eyes. And she remembered, too.

She reached up and intertwined her fingers behind his neck. His mind warmed as he processed the fact that she trusted him.

Their noses touched.

Their pupils were swelling.

He would go no further, but she didn't know that. Here he would deduce.

"Does it hurt when I do this?" he asked, his eyes steady and unblinking.

"Do what?" Irene asked, blissfully mesmerized.

He slid his arms around her shoulders as she inhaled expectantly. To her surprise, he pressed her right shoulder blade firmly with his thumb. As his fingers felt the flesh, he knew exactly why she had resisted the road's touch only an hour earlier.

Shock chased the sensual emotion off her face.

She let go of his neck, inhaled as if she were coming up for water, and smacked him across the face.

He was not stunned.

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't," she spat, speaking the word as if it tasted foul. Her eyes were practically on fire.

Her nose flared. Her eyes were like dinner plates. She was breathing hard; not from arousal, but from anger. A bead of water formed in her left eye. Sherlock recognized her expression. It was the same as it had been when he revealed the code that unlocked her camera phone.

"Leave me."

She said it under her breath. It was hardly audible. Barely discernible.

The bead let go of the lash and fell down her cheek.

She turned over and faced the wall.

"You don't wield the whip anymore, do you, Miss Adler?"

"My dominatrix days ended the moment you confiscated my camera phone."

"No, I mean you aren't a dominatrix unprofessionally, either."

"Who says I'm not?" she snapped, still facing the wall.

"The night you were beaten a few days ago."

She froze. Words disobediently lingered at the back of her throat.

Then she laughed.

"You stupid man. Beaten? I'm not easily beaten. My shoulder is sore, and I prefer you keep your slimy hands off it. Which, if you agree to—,"

"No. You have scars on your shoulder blade. Your scapula is bruised from blunt force; it's not sore."

She pulled the sheets up over her shoulders.

"Self-mutilation, Mr. Holmes. It's quite common."

"A bruised scapula? With all due respect, even you couldn't pull that off."

She turned to face him. He thought she was going to cry, but she did not. She seemed to have read his mind, for she looked up defiantly, against any thought of tears.

"What happened, Miss Adler?"

She remembered two days ago. She remembered how she had eaten dinner at the hotel, and a man had lasciviously studied her from his own table. She was initially flattered. She had seen him before on the same floor as her, exchanging flirtatious glances as they passed in the hall.

He finished his dinner at the same time she finished hers, and he strode to the stairs as she made her way to the elevator. She had expected a sensual, mannerly invitation from him, but when he met her at her door and forced her into the bedroom as she opened it, she thought herself a fool.

She kicked him hard in the shins, and they struggled on the floor. She would not go down without a fight. She would be the one to dominate, not him. No one could make her do anything. She would master him and make him beg.

She drove her nails into his flesh, made him bleed, but he would not relent. She bit, scratched, pushed. Eventually, her blue, battered arms and bloody cheeks told her there was nothing left she could do. Her bedraggled hair fell over her eyes as she continued to pommel the assailant with desperate blows.

He was strong.

She wept, screamed, and was ashamed to find herself begging. Negotiating had never been her preferred weapon of choice. Nevertheless, here she was.

But the villain did not stop. He had a rope and a gag. He tore her dress and tied her arms to the bedpost. She kicked his stomach as he approached her. Her feet found their place with strength. Her left foot pommeled his chin. No, he would not, could not do this to her.

When she didn't stop struggling, he took a glass lamp from the nearby table and walloped her shoulder blade with the base.

It shattered as it collided with her fair skin.

The pain was like having a block of ice forced up her throat. She fell limp, sputtering in agony and lay like one dead upon the carpet.

It was the final blow.

She coughed up lungfuls of agony.

As if that weren't enough, he rummaged through her closet for that dreaded object: the riding crop, and he used it on her just as she had done to others before.

By the time he had left her bedroom before the sun rose without so much as a goodbye, there was blood on the floor.

She lay there all the next day.

Like a ravaged piece of flesh.

Her body would not obey her commands. Her eyes leaked tears without her even wanting them to. She stared at the white ceiling, unashamedly naked, and let herself bleed on the carpet. She felt nothing. She felt like nothing. Everything was numb.

She relayed the account for him, but not the details.

Sherlock said nothing, but his eyes were sparking with empathy. He wanted to reach out and take her hand. To hold her. To caress her hair. To take her face in his hands and even kiss her. How he wished he could have. But how it would have lowered him. Sentiment was still a chemical defect, and it would never cease to be. He continued to stare at her in the silence that followed.

Their eyes met.

She saw the compassion on his face. She clenched the sheets in her petite fists.

"Don't pity me, Mr. Holmes," she spat, wiping her seemingly tearless eyes. She rolled over once more and faced the wall.

Domination was a blanket of firm, powerful security.

At least it had been.

With every fall of her whip-wielding hand, there was pain for them. Each time the leather strip hit the flesh, there was triumph in her heart.

She knew it was evil.

Of course she knew.

She was bad, yes. She was a bad, bad woman.

But the power, oh, the power coursing through her veins.

It felt something akin to the way a young boy feels when he plucks the wings off a butterfly. When he squishes an ant or crushes duck eggs for the fun of it. The power makes one feel alive, secure, masterful.

So felt Irene Adler.

She was the master, the conqueror.

The dominatrix.

But then to receive it.

To be dominated.

It hurt.

It stung.

It felt like a thousand needles slowly being twisted into her untamed, unanswerable soul.

How she hated the victor.

"May I see it?" Sherlock asked, his tone gentle.

Irene turned to face him again.

"See what?"

"The injuries, Miss Adler. On your back. Let me see them."

She turned toward the wall again and replied with a distant "help yourself."

He pulled the sleeve off of her shoulder, confident she wouldn't try anything stupid. What he saw confirmed his darkest suspicions.

There were scars from cuts the glass had made. There were welts from a riding crop's leather strap. Her bone was swollen and bruised. When he ran his fingers over it all, she inhaled, but never winced.

He spoke at long last.

"I'll make the tea."

"Yes, do."

She fell asleep while he did so.

That night Sherlock found a cracked riding whip in the walk-in closet.

...

The next morning, Irene rose late and opened the windows. Sunlight streamed in, and she stared out at Berlin below. Tourists flocked around the Brandenburg Gate like moths around a candle.

Sherlock was on the floor, still sleeping. He hadn't even changed for bed. His mouth was open, and he was barely snoring. She wondered if she should scare him and wake him up with a kiss. Then she thought better of it and left him alone.

Last night was still fresh in her mind. She let her hand run over her shoulder where he had touched the wounds there. Her face was unflinching and cold.

So what if he knew? So what if he knew she was not the irradicable dominatrix anymore?

She decided it wouldn't matter so much. He might pity her, which could come in handy if she played her cards right.

But no, he wasn't stupid. If his pity was of an advantage, she would have had her way last night. He was too good, and she knew it. He was an ally, and it was much better than him being an enemy.

Without a word to him, she went to choose her clothes and take a bath. Showers were never something she enjoyed, especially not with scarred flesh for a back.

She was done in no time, and came walking back into the room wearing a blue satin dress that concealed every inch of shoulder she had. She didn't want him deducing anything else.

Scanning the suite, she found no trace of Sherlock. He was gone.

At first, she tried convincing herself it was a joke.

"Mr. Holmes," she chirped, calling out with her hands on her hips and a wholeheartedly unamused grimace on her face.

Then she saw the note on the kitchen counter.

It was written by a hurried hand.

Received word from "our British government." Off to who knows where. I thought I'd give you a quiet morning without any goodbyes. Hope the bone heals soon. Stay off it. You know what I mean. Try Aloe for the skin.

SH

She ripped it in half, then in quarters, then into eighths, and finally sixteenths.

The bastard!

She stuffed the bits of ripped paper into the trash can and slipped on a pair of flats. Running hastily toward the door, she opened it and headed for the stairs.

He would not get away this easily.

The truth was, Sherlock had studied the science of sleeping, and as soon as he had realized that Miss Adler was awake, he assumed a position of repetitive breathing, open-mouthed snoring, and a relaxed bodily figure. He had not worn any clothes for bed because he had been awake for the entirety of the previous night biting his nails in a nearby chair whilst sipping a cup of tea.

From his chair he could keep an eye on her, and for the most part she had slept peacefully. Every time he glanced toward the bed, he felt a belt of horrid proportions tighten around his insides. His face was as emotionless as ever, but his heart was feeling many things.

It was all normal to him.

He felt both proud and annoyed with himself.

He was proud for having resisted all opportunities of expressing sentiment. It was a true struggle of his that he had carried since he was small. His elder brother had always teased him about being "the emotional child."

Mycroft was always right.

On the other hand, he was annoyed with himself for his having let a rape victim fall asleep in his company without consolation after she had shared a personal story that he compelled her to tell against her will. She never had any intention of telling him. It was too painful.

How similar they were.

His thoughts recycled themselves all night.

Sherlock waited until nearly nine o'clock in the morning. It was then that he decided it would be better if he were gone before she woke. He didn't want to talk to her, and he decided he didn't want to be there when she spoke to him. He was afraid of what she would do. He had received a message from Mycroft during the ride back to the hotel the previous night that he was needed in Minsk in two days. Another terror cell had been located. Remembering this information suddenly, he found a few pieces of scratch paper on a complimentary notepad and scrawled the message with a black pen.

She rolled over.

He clutched the pen and scowled at himself. He needed to stop. He was being incredibly stupid. If he left now, she would hear the door.

So what if she heard the door?

She would go after him, ask where he was going, what he was doing, to which he would reply something incredibly plausible and utterly fictitious.

There. The solution was simple. Go and leave the room.

I can't lie to her.

Why not?

He had stumped himself. He had woven a noose and slipped his neck through it. Halfway between the bed and the door, he felt as if he were being pulled by both ends of the room. The blankets were rustling. She rolled over again.

He dropped to the floor and assumed the position of a sleeping man.

He dared not open his eyes as he felt her stand over his presumably unconscious form for a moment.

God in heaven, don't let her kiss me.

Sherlock thanked the God in heaven.

The door to the walk-in closet opened and shut. Sherlock waited until he heard the bath water start and stop running before he stood up and briskly strode out of the room. His own suite was the floor below, and he needed to gather up his few belongings before hailing a cab out front.

It took him about thirty minutes to stuff all his ragtag clothing, toiletries, and necessities into the suitcase. He was a messy thing, and his items were everywhere. He figured she wouldn't take such a short time as thirty minutes to bathe. Knowing her, she would most likely stay in for an hour longer.

Blood was pounding in his ears. He needed to be gone. Now.

He hailed a cab out front and ordered the driver to take him to Berlin Ostbahnhof Station where he would catch the ten o'clock train to Warsaw and then transfer to Minsk.

No sooner had Sherlock stepped into the cab than Irene had stepped out of the bathroom. She scanned the room, found the note, and declared him a bastard in her mind.

But she was clever.

If he thought she hadn't seen the message "Minsk, brother mine. Two days. Let not your heart be troubled," from a certain "MH," he was dead wrong. She had glimpsed it on the taxi ride home. He had his hand over his phone, but she read it in the reflection of the window before he minimized it simultaneously. She had simpered at herself in the dark.

To the train station she would go.

She ran to the door, opened it, and raced to the stairs. She skipped multiple steps, nearly tripping in her foolish dash to the first floor. Irene ordered a cab as soon as she came to the door and practically screamed "Ostbahnhof Station, bitte!" at the driver.

Sherlock's cab was only five to ten minutes ahead of Irene's. She was sure she would catch him before he had gotten on the train to Minsk. She had to.

He was sure he would be on the train before she had even gotten out of the bathtub. He had to be on the train before she even knew he was gone.

When Irene made it to the station, the driver let her off as soon as he could stop, and she jostled her way through the crowd as only a European can. She walked with nearly four-foot-long strides on the left side of the queue and scanned the crowd for his face.

The trains heading east were the ones she needed. She found the right signs. There were trains to Frankfurt, Nice, Warsaw...Warsaw was east. Most likely he would take the next train to Warsaw and from there transfer to a different station. The European transportation system was immaculate.

A train came into the station with enough wind to muster the strength of a combatant hurricane. Her hair blew around in every which way, and she shoved it all behind her ears frustratedly. She searched the sea of faces, hoping for one with long cheekbones, defined nose, and a myriad of black hair.

She found him. He was looking at his phone with uneasy, shaking fingers. His face was expressionless as ever; oblivious to the wind from the train.

She didn't want to give him the impression that she had frantically followed him, so she put her hands on her hips, composed her face, and took smooth, collected steps in his direction. She was directly behind him when she haughtily announced, "You didn't think you'd sneak off that easily, did you, Mr. Holmes?"

His mind was halted in its tracks.

What! How? Oh, God, the woman was good.

He needed composure, so he didn't turn around.

"No," he drawled instantly, as if he knew she had been standing there the whole time. "I gave you about ten minutes, and you've made it in just under fifteen. If I'm being honest, I'm a bit disappointed, Miss Adler."

She rolled her eyes in an exaggerated manner.

"I expected as much," she mumbled, tapping the ground with her foot. "You could have at least said goodbye."

He pursed his lips and clucked his tongue.

"Erm," he lazily drawled again, as if thinking. He still did not turn around. His face was burning with color. "No, I didn't really want to, to be honest. I've never been the best at that sort of thing."

"Goodbye kiss?" she flirted, hoping for a bit of luck.

His mind was much too fast for his own good.

He saw her in a white dress before an altar. He was wearing a tux. Their ring fingers were encircled, their hands clasped in ardor, and he was kissing her with a passion under a canopy of flowers.

He shut his eyes to clear the image from his mind. He was slapping himself inside his mind palace.

"Even worse," he replied, his head still buried deep in his phone.

She was annoyed. She took a few steps closer until she was at his elbow.

"God, I wish I were as interesting as that phone. What's it say?" she peeped over his shoulder, and he snapped it shut, pocketing it as if the reflex were involuntary. She raised her eyebrows and purposely enlarged her eyes as he almost elbowed her in the face putting it away.

"Nothing of your concern," he curtly answered, refusing to make eye contact. He reminded himself that resisting eye contact was key in this situation.

Her temperament was getting ripe with exasperation, and she wanted the attention she believed she deserved. He licked his lips and stared at the platform. When would the bloody train arrive?

"I'll be on my way, then," she droned abruptly, turning on her heel and taking a few steps away from him. He knew she wasn't going to leave, so he waved his arm out to her in farewell and continued to wait on the platform for the train and barely replied, "alright then."

"Oh for God's sakes," Irene turned around again and marched back towards him, his back still against her.

"Mr. Holmes," she addressed him with her most assertive tone, to which Sherlock looked upwards, but still did not respond. His arms hung motionless at his sides and his eyes were fixed on the ceiling.

His resolve cracked.

"I'm sorry you were raped, Miss Adler," he uttered suddenly, wiping the fury from her face as if it had never existed at all. Her eyes weren't watery, but she was shocked that he had let the word "sorry" pass his lips. It was a word she thought him incapable of pronouncing.

"I didn't ask you to be sorry. I told you not to pity me," she replied with sharp clarity.

She meant to sting, but he was not stung.

"I know, but I—I do. And I'm sorry." His heel turned. He was looking down into her blue eyes now, holding out his hand for her to shake. She took it in both her own and pulled him closer.

She brushed a bit of imaginary dust from his coat. He watched her curiously.

"And I forgive you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," she replied, lengthening the syllables of his name with her usual sensuous drawl. "I forgive you for being the most ridiculous, difficult, and arrogant idiot to ever walk the earth." She stroked his cheek as he continued to look completely unaffected by her words.

That's how she knew they were making effect in his mind palace.

The train rolled into the station, and the PA announced over the sea of travelers that the train to Warsaw was now boarding. She intertwined her fingers around his neck, teased a kiss on his lips then kissed his cheek instead.

"Not yet," she chaffed, letting her hands find their usual position on her hips and stepping back a foot so she could look him up and down.

He was breathing normally now and found his cheek warmer than it was a few minutes ago. He chided himself for being so trivial.

"Have fun in Minsk, darling," she added, before swinging herself around and strutting towards the front of the station.

Sherlock required no explanation. No, he wasn't sure how she knew he was going to Minsk, but he always knew she would have figured it out. It came as no surprise to him.

And she was flattered that he didn't ask questions. It made her cheeks glow. Indeed, he had expected it of her. What a clever man.

She stopped at the front while she waited for a cab and decided to send him a text.

Jusqu'à la prochaine fois, mon amour.

IA

Until next time, my darling.

And on the train, Sherlock replied.

Au revior

SH

It made her smile.

Parting again for the second time in unknown circumstances, Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes both walked in different directions, but they silently knew that their paths would undoubtedly cross again.

At least as long as they both owned a fully functioning mobile.


	4. Wherein Sherlock Finds His Feathers Ruffled

~ One week after The Final Problem ~

...

"Your move, John," Sherlock yawned, rubbing his eyes sleepily. It was one o'clock in the morning, and he was playing chess with his best friend, John Watson.

"Yeah, I know. You said that already. I heard you the first ten bloody times," John replied, insanely irritated. It was hard playing chess against a mind like Sherlock's. John had nearly wasted five minutes just sitting and staring at the board and sweating. It looked like checkmate. Again.

He saw Sherlock's bishop in position to take out his own queen, but if he moved his queen, Sherlock's rook could take out his king, which was checkmate. He decided he was bored with the fourth round of chess, so he let Sherlock take the king.

"Why do you always let me win, John? It's no fun," Sherlock complained, grabbing his rook and smashing John's king off the board with an exaggerated swing.

John watched the king roll around on the floor and vanish under a chair.

"I'll get it, shall I?" John sputtered with annoyance, squatting and feeling around under the chair for the missing piece.

"And I don't always let you win. Most of the time you let me win," John said, answering Sherlock's question.

"Oh my Gooood, I'm so BORED!" Sherlock whined as he leaned back in his chair, let his neck hang down at the other side, and put both hands on his head as only an exasperated genius can. John watched the melodramatic performance with laughing thoughts. Only Sherlock could make boredom look like Shakespeare.

John sniffed.

"Not to worry, Sherlock. I'm sure a case'll turn up soon. Fancy a cuppa?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"No, no, no, I don't want anything! I need a case! Something! A cigarette, John! I need a cigarette. Have you got any on you?"

John eyed him sarcastically.

"You really are bored, aren't you? D'you forget I don't smoke?" he asked, knowing he was pushing a few of the detective's buttons.

"Ugh!" Sherlock groaned again. He slouched so much in his chair that he slid off it and landed on the ground between his chair and the table on which they had been playing chess.

"Why are you even here?" Sherlock demanded to know, getting angry now. John checked his watch. One-thirty. Damn. Rosie was asleep in a crib upstairs, which was made in case John was needed at 221b...as he was this night to keep Sherlock company.

"Maybe you'd better get to bed, eh, Sherlock? Go to sleep, dream about something good, and wake up tomorrow. Who knows, maybe there'll be a case when you wake up?" John was trying to be optimistic, but Sherlock saw right through his phony attempts to cheer him up.

"Don't be an optimist, John, it never did suit you."

"Then don't be bored. It never suited you," he parried.

Sherlock squinted ever so slightly at him. How sarcastic John could be sometimes!

"Find something to do, Sherlock, and don't let it be nicotine. You're doing really well. I'm off to sleep. Text me if anything turns up."

"Yes, yes; you know I will," Sherlock responded, waving his hands at John as he closed the door behind him.

He picked up a pistol, trying to decide whether or not to shoot the wall. That stupid yellow smiley...what right had it to smile so unflinchingly at him when he was bored? He should shoot it. Right between the eyes. The nerve of it to smile at him!

He raised the pistol. A grin spread across his face.

Bang, bang, bang!

He paused.

John was heard uttering a curse word in the floor above, and Rosie was crying.

He rolled his eyes as he heard a door close downstairs and hustling footsteps ascending to his room. It was Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock knew full well not to mess with this woman...especially at one in the morning when she wore only her slippers and nightie.

"A-a-ah," she scolded, putting out her hand for him to give her the gun.

"Give that to me, young man," she chided him, seizing the gun in her old, wrinkly paw and wrenching it from his grip.

"Why, Sherlock? Oh, dear Lord! Look at my wall! And don't smile at me like that, you bloody clot," she was irate, flinging the gun above her head as she iterated each word.

"I've told you before! I won't say it again!" she threatened as she shut the door and marched back down the creaky wooden steps.

He sighed laboriously. How horrible it was to be bored. He considered sneaking downstairs and stealing a bit of stimulant from Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. He knew she had some.

His eyelids felt as though weights were tied to them. Maybe John was right. Sleep was all he needed. He closed his eyes.

Ahh.

He opened them instantly. His phone was on the mantle, face down, and he could see the screen glowing. He had a new text, and he knew who it was.

I might need dinner.

IA

Sherlock rubbed his bloodshot eyes with a shaking fist. He was utterly confused. The message itself was not like her usual flirtatious greetings. It was concise, deliberate...not sensual by any means.

What's happened?

SH

He waited in agony for her response.

I happened.

JM x

He nearly dropped the phone.

His stomach was in his mouth. His head was swimming. He stared at the two letters in disbelief. The initials. JM. Jim Moriarty. It was impossible. The final problem had occurred only a week ago. Sherlock had survived it. But Moriarty...Moriarty was still dead. Eurus had told him he was dead. He had recorded all the messages, all the games, all the puzzles...

He remembered himself, and inhaled slowly.

She was clever.

The woman was playing a trick.

Hilarious. Are you in London?

SH

His heart pounded inside his temples as he watched the screen. He could see that someone was forming a reply. Now all he needed to do was wait.

Here to visit a friend of yours.

JM x

There was an attachment with the message. He downloaded it.

It was loading.

Beads of sweat formed on his forehead as he waited for the download to complete.

"Come on!" he screamed into the device.

At last.

He opened it.

It was a video of none other than Jim Moriarty, holding the camera up to his weaselly face and smiling like an idiot. Sherlock watched it with an expressionless gaze. Inside, his heart was racing.

"Hallo, Sherlock!" (he waved with a maniacal expression) "Surprise! Did you miss me? I sure missed you. Whewf!" (here he whipped his brow animatedly) "You know, it's good to be back. Really." (he widened his eyes and nodded with mock sincerity) "It sure was boring without you. I mean, without you and me. Boring without me..." (he broke off and started looking on the ground past the camera) "and OH," (acting as though he remembers something he'd forgotten) "I brought you a present. Nothing, really, just a little something to say welcome back. To me, I mean. To you and me. It's a bit indiscreet, so I'll send it to you in a photograph. I don't want you to be shocked." Moriarty raised his hands to his cheeks and formed his mouth into an O.

The video ended.

Another download had come in since then, and he opened it.

The contents of this photograph made him feel as though he would be sick. It was Irene. Her eyes were closed, bruised, and she had bloody cuts on her cheeks. Her body was covered with a blanket, but her hands and legs were protruding from beneath it. He couldn't tell if she were naked or clothed. Her wrists were tied with cloths, her legs fastened with a rope, and a gag ran through her mouth. She was in a fetal position, her mouth slightly open and a thin trickle of blood sliding down her cheek.

Sherlock did not know how to respond. His fingers shook. His body was failing. His knees buckled and he sank into the nearby chair. He glanced down at the screen and was about to form the reply "you're dead" when the front door was pounded upon.

He didn't stir. He wasn't frightened, but he was frozen with something like insane unbelief.

Three more pounds on the door.

Mrs. Hudson's bedroom door opened. Sherlock walked toward the door of the flat and opened it a crack to examine below. She opened the door slowly, peeped out, and let out an "ooh, dear!" as something heavy pushed the door open. Something was leaning against the foot of the door, and its weight had pushed it open.

It was a body. The neck fell backward as the door opened, and the head hit the floor with a thud.

Sherlock threw open the door and raced down the steps, two at a time. Mrs. Hudson was frantic, fanning herself and calling out "boys, boys!" with all her might. Sherlock was there in an instant, his arms around her, and he gently pushed her to the side.

Leaning over the body, he found that it was none other than the woman herself.

She was wrapped in a wet coat...it was identical to his own. Apart from that, he couldn't tell if she was naked underneath or wearing thin undergarments. Rain was pouring in from outside, and her face was shimmering with water. The coat was quite wet, but not completely soaked through. Nevertheless, her feet were bare, and her hair was sopping. Someone hadn't just dumped her here...it looked like she had been sitting unconscious in the rain for at least a half hour.

He untied the gag from behind her head and put his ear to her mouth. She was breathing.

"Can you hear me? Say something, Miss Adler," he was in no respect sentimental in his tone of speech. His voice was deep and commanding.

Her mouth was open, and she moaned, but that was all.

"John! John!" Sherlock cried out, taking Irene in his arms and carrying her up the stairs. If there was one time he needed the doctor, it was now. "John!"

John staggered into the kitchen as Sherlock came in with Irene. He couldn't see the woman's face, so he couldn't see that it was the infamous dominatrix he had once written about in A Scandal in Belgravia.

"Oh, my God," John breathed, blinking in the light and rubbing his eyes to wake himself up. "Oh, Jesus; what's happened, Sherlock?"

"Never mind that now. I need you to get a hot compress and tea. Fetch socks from upstairs. Mrs. Hudson, get a robe of yours from downstairs."

They both obeyed Sherlock like soldiers obeying a general. John vanished upstairs to get the socks, and Mrs. Hudson scurried downstairs to get the robe. Sherlock took her to his bedroom and laid her down upon the sheets where she herself had once lay. He turned on the light by his bed, which was dim enough for her comfort. He untied her wrists and legs so that they lay limp upon the sheets.

Now for the coat.

He knew she was possibly unclothed beneath it, but for her to continue wearing it was a risk. She would need to be changed into something else.

"Oh dear God," he breathed, unbuttoning the first button. He closed his eyes nervously. As soon as it was unfastened, he felt for fabric. He opened his eyes at the touch of knit. She had a thin camisole underneath which was miraculously still dry. He exhaled as though he had been holding his breath for a week.

"I'm clothed, Mr. Holmes," came a tired, hardly audible voice. He looked at her face and saw she was smiling. Despite her bedraggled appearance, her lips were still red. Her eyes barely opened, but she was looking at him with hilarity.

"Good. That does change things," he replied, unbuttoning the rest of the coat, pulling it out from under her, and discarding it on the floor.

Her left hand was weak, but she reached up and caressed his cheek and neck before letting it fall down on the covers again. A corner of his mouth jerked upward, but he pulled it down in check before any such thing as a smile dared to occur on his face.

But John came in before her hand fell.

He dropped the socks, the tea, and the hot compress. The cup shattered and the steaming liquid seeped into the doctor's linen socks. He hopped around as it stung his feet until he found a place outside the contaminated floor.

"John!" Sherlock scolded, looking at the mess his friend had made.

"Oh...my God." John's face was hilarious. He was staring open-mouthed at the woman in Sherlock's own bed. She looked at him through her half-conscious stupor.

"Well done, Doctor Watson," she said, referring to the mess on the floor.

"So she's here then...in our bloody flat. Oh God, I always wondered when you'd come around," John was smiling at Irene, shaking his head in amazement; he was always happy whenever it looked as though Sherlock was finally letting himself become romantically attached. "How long is she gonna stay?"

"It's not like that, John."

Irene raised an eyebrow.

"He knows?"

"Yes. The text alert gave it away a few weeks ago."

Her eyes glowed.

"I always knew it would come in handy."

John abruptly wrinkled his nose and sniffed.

"Yeah, I know all about you two. High Wycombe and all that. Was it nice? He never tells me anything."

Irene was intrigued.

"High Wycombe?"

"John has fantasies in his mind about us, Miss Adler. Thoroughly fictitious, I can assure you."

"No, no, do go on, Doctor Watson, I'm intrigued. What do you think happens between us...at High Wycombe?"

John opened his mouth, but Sherlock shut it up instantly.

"Get the tea, compress, and socks, John."

"Is that it, then?"

"Get them, and I'll tell you anything you want later."

"Hang on, you—"

"Get them, now, John..."

John left the room uttering curses at his friend, and Sherlock was alone with Irene in the bedroom.

"What did you have to spoil my fun for?" Irene whined, taking his idle hand in her own and stroking it.

"Destroying any prospective ideas that might birth themselves in that mind of yours. I don't want High Wycombe, but you might."

"Well, you certainly showed him," Irene whispered, looking impressed even in her tired state of mind.

"Where were we?" Sherlock asked, ignoring her flattery.

"You were about to dress me," she replied, holding her arms out and grinning mischievously. He was midway through an eyeroll when Mrs. Hudson entered with a bathrobe. She handed it to him with a sweet "here you are, love" and smiled with sympathy toward Irene. As she glanced the woman's face, a sudden memory jolted in her mind. It was hard to tell, but something seemed familiar about her.

"Sorry, but do I know you from somewhere?" she asked hesitantly, wearing an apologetic look of inquiry.

"Never mind that now, Mrs. Hudson. Isn't it time you were in bed?" Sherlock made his position clear. She had helped enough, and now he needed her back downstairs.

"You're right, Sherlock. See you in the morning," she sleepily chirped as she headed back towards her flat.

Sherlock propped Irene up with his left arm and tried to get the robe on with the other. He was dedicatedly focused on dressing her that he didn't seem to notice the close proximity between their faces. She noticed, undoubtedly, but he appeared to remain oblivious.

Appeared is the central word of interest.

And it explains why he finished hastily and pulled the blankets down to cover her. She sighed as she settled down onto the pillow, her eyelids still dimmed with fatigue.

"Well, that was lovely, dear," she exclaimed, closing her eyes and exhaling with exhaustion.

"What happened?" Sherlock asked, standing at the bedside and looking down at her with a face wearing an urgent façade. She looked up at him.

"You asked me that before...and he told you."

Sherlock slammed his hand on the bedpost, rattling it behind Irene's back. She didn't stir, she just closed her eyes and breathed. "Temper, temper," she cooed as she once had in Berlin.

"Shut up!" Sherlock retorted. "Don't play games with me, Miss Adler," he hissed. Irene had never seen him so agitated...especially with her. Her eyes spoke the confusion she was experiencing. His breaths were heavy as he towered over her.

She swallowed and began.

"It's a plan. A grand plan. It is going to work...oh, please let me just sleep and rest and I promise I'll tell you in the morning." She closed her eyes and laid back on the pillow, but decided she'd add, "I'll tell you everything if you're a good boy."

Sherlock was indecisive. She had a valid reason, but she was also Irene Adler. How much could he trust her?

"Sherlock."

It was John.

Sherlock motioned for him to come in.

"Here we are," he said, placing the tea on the nightstand and putting the cloth on her forehead. She smiled. "Much thanks, Doctor Watson. At least one of you knows how to love a lady." She reproached Sherlock with her eyes. John stood there, admiring the scene with an awestruck grin on his face and chuckles in his throat. It was even better than when Janine had come around.

Sherlock was overly annoyed with John's glee and Irene's uncooperative nature. Her playful eyes fueled an obnoxious fire in his stomach, and John's enthusiastic smiles made Sherlock want to storm out of the room. How was Moriarty alive? How was Irene here in his flat? Why was she so battered? He wanted answers, and all he received were the flirtatious glances of a damsel in distress and the encouraging grins of a hopeful matchmaker.

It was all so emotional.

All so maddening.

Petty...

John's voice shattered his bowl of agitations.

"I'd love a bit of explaining, but I'm going to bed, and so are you, Sherlock. You need it...still bored, eh?" When Sherlock just stared at him, John sarcastically added, "you plan on sleeping in here, too?" He started laughing and shaking his head at his friend's fatigued expression. This little act caused Sherlock's kettle of frustration to boil over. He would annoy John, too...give him the answer he'd least expect to hear. He'd flabbergast the man.

Defiantly, he declared, "Yes, I think I will."

Irene's eyebrows nearly flew to her hairline.

John looked like he had been hit in the stomach with a football.

"You WHAT?—Oh my God, it's worse than I thought..."

"I'll put pillows in between us to divide the bed, and I'll sleep in here. Good night, John."

John was mouthing insults once again at Sherlock and Irene as he left the room.

"Brave man. Sharing a bed with me," Irene wheezed before taking a sip of her tea. Her fingers were shaking slightly, but not enough to spill the liquid.

"Only because of the state you're in. Don't get your hopes up. Besides, he was being annoying."

She smirked as he turned away. He left and returned with armfuls of pillows from the living room to plop down onto the bed to separate them as they slept.

He clothed her bare, clammy feet with the socks John had left. She didn't say anything, and he didn't demand thanks. She did do quite a bit of grinning, however.

As soon as everything was settled, Sherlock adjusted the pillows once more to secure the fateful woman to her side of the bed, and turned out the light.

He lay there in the dark thinking about Moriarty. How he had returned. If he had returned. The video he had received had sent scaly snakes slithering up and down his spine. He remembered how his insides had gone for a dive when he saw the demoralizing photograph of Irene on the concrete floor of who-knows-where.

"Goodnight, Mr. Holmes," she whispered from her side of the bed.

He said nothing.

Ten minutes passed.

She was definitely asleep now. He could hear her repetitive breaths from over the wall of pillows. What an odd association they shared...no, he would not let himself call it a relationship.

If he were being honest with himself, he would have to admit that he was glad of her presence here. He was glad she wasn't still on that concrete floor. He was glad he had her where he could keep an eye on her.


	5. The Iceman's Request

Irene woke up the next morning to find that her body was still weak, but she felt remarkably stronger than she had the night before. Daylight streamed through the window, and the sounds of London reached her ears. Cabs honked at pedestrians, and salesmen called out to passersby trying to sell the daily paper.

She looked over at Sherlock's side of the bed, hoping to frighten him awake with the tapping of his nose or the tickling of his ears. To her dismay, his place was empty. The bathroom was vacant.

A raucous in the sitting room interrupted her deductions.

"You can't just bloody walk in here!" yelled the agitated voice of a certain John Watson.

"I can, and I believe I just did, Doctor Watson," replied the pompous drawl of Mycroft Holmes.

"I'm here to see Miss Adler," she heard Mycroft add.

Where was Sherlock?

"Oh, so you know too then, do you? About her being alive? Came in here all banged up last night. She's asleep, in there. Go see her yourself," came John's frustrated reply.

"In Sherlock's bedroom? Where is my brother?" Mycroft asked.

"Still asleep," John replied.

Irene was confused. He wasn't in the room, and he certainly wasn't sleeping in the bed or washing in the shower. The window was open, but he couldn't have fit through there...could he?

"Where?" Mycroft was also confused. "In there?"

John must have given a short, curt nod, because Mycroft murderously breathed out, "Of all the damned things..."

The door banged open, and Mycroft entered with John following behind like a peeping tom. Irene turned toward Mycroft with a haughty expression on her sleepy face.

"Am I allowed to dress, Mr. Holmes?" she questioned.

Mycroft looked past her to Sherlock's side of the bed.

"Where is my brother?" Mycroft once again demanded.

"I don't know."

"Yes, you do."

"I told you," she hissed, sitting herself up in bed and raising her voice just a touch, "I don't know."

"Don't lie to me, Miss Adler. Don't you dare play games with me, do you understand? I swear to you, if you're lying to me, I will—,"

But Irene never found out what Mycroft would have done if she were lying to him, because at that moment Sherlock came strolling in to the bedroom.

"Where were you?" Irene quizzed, looking at him with confusion clouding her face.

"Out. Had some shopping to do. I left before anyone was awake. Morning, brother dear," he said, turning to Mycroft. "I thought you had a coffee date with Lady Smallwood this morning. I hope you haven't fallen out," he teased, placing a bag on the floor.

"Oh, grow up, Sherlock," Mycroft reproached, scanning his brother up and down with contempt. His scoldings didn't stop there.

"Did you sleep in here last night?"

"I would hope so. It is my bedroom."

"Did you sleep in this bed?" Mycroft asked, his voice growing louder with impatience towards his kid brother.

"Yes, I did."

"Ah. I see the pillows were a clever idea," Mycroft stated, dropping his anger as quickly as it had ignited.

"Returning to more important matters, I have come to discuss the terms of our agreement. And by our agreement I mean mine and Miss Adler's. Sherlock, you are as much a part of this agreement as we are, now, and it's about time you knew."

"Do I get in on this one?" John interjected, shoving his short form in between Mycroft and Sherlock. His arms were crossed in the most intimidating stance he could muster.

"Yes, Doctor Watson. You've seen far too much to keep you out of it now."

"Before we do anything," Irene interrupted, "might I be allowed to shower and dress myself? A girl's got to be properly dressed if she wants to do anything."

"That's a bit of a paradox, coming from you," John joked, raising his eyebrows at the woman. The first time he met her she had been completely unclothed.

She studied him quizzically and smirked, her eyes glimmering with mirth.

"How right you are, Doctor Watson. But still, it is a paradox that I find agreeable to listen to today. Give me an hour, gentlemen, and I shall be ready for you."

She made a sweeping motion with her hands to urge them to get out of the bedroom.

Sherlock picked up the grocery bag and placed it on the bed at Irene's feet.

"Those are for you," he muttered as he turned around and retreated with the other two men out of the bedroom.

As soon as the door was shut, she seized the bag with greedy curiosity. She opened the bag and found a note inside, along with a few articles of clothing.

Don't think about going naked. Bought you some clothes. Yes, I know it was clever.

SH

She smiled as she pulled out two dresses, a black turtleneck sweater, and black leggings, the price tags ripped off of everything. As for the dresses, there was an off-the-shoulder black dress with a slit for the right leg and a yellow shin-length pastel dress with elbow-length sleeves and a white sash, perfect for walking and everyday things.

His taste really wasn't so bad.

There were also a pair of socks and one pair of briefs.

She tried everything, and it all fit perfectly. Her measurements hadn't changed since they had first met, and she was flattered that he had noticed.

After about an hour and a half, Irene emerged from the bedroom wearing the turtleneck sweater and black leggings. Her hair was wet, but she let it down to dry. As such, it complimented her face perfectly, especially since she wasn't wearing any makeup. It had all been washed off in the shower, which she had not particularly enjoyed. She always preferred a bath.

"Morning, boys," she said, pushing her still-wet hair behind her ears. Mycroft stood by the fireplace, and John and Sherlock sat opposite each other in the two chairs by the hearth.

Walking into the kitchen with an air of ownership, she opened the cupboards and pulled out a mug, filled it with sugar, and poured some coffee for herself from the pot on the counter. Swinging over toward the fridge, she found the milk, splashed a tad into her cup, stirred it, and jaunted into the sitting room.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. His face was twitching with agony.

Rosie was playing in a pen near the window, and as Irene saw her, her face lit up.

"Oh my God, look at this beautiful thing!" she exclaimed, setting her cup down and standing near the rails to run her dainty fingers through Rosie's blonde curls. Rosie laughed at this new face. She enjoyed the deserved attention this woman gave her.

"That's Rosie, my daughter," John replied.

"Yes, I know—Sherlock told me. My condolences on the passing of your wife. She seemed like a lovely woman. I'm sure we would've caught on like a house on fire."

John cleared his throat. "Yeah, she was. And you probably would've. She used to joke about you and Sherlock. She'd be quite interested and fairly giddy to see you here."

"I shall do my best to entertain her from where she sleeps," Irene said, catching Sherlock's eye. John's face turned red, and he was delighted for his friend, even if his friend looked like sticks were being shoved up his pants.

Irene coddled Rosie's cheeks one last time before she settled down in Sherlock's desk chair.

She crossed her legs and sipped the coffee as though it were water from the fountain of youth.

Her expression was indescribably perky.

"Well? Are we going to discuss it or not?" she asked, staring at Mycroft with an unflinching gaze.

"Yes," Mycroft began, clearing his throat and itching the back of his neck uncomfortably.

"We've known that Jim Moriarty is alive ever since he aired his 'do you miss me' message across the country."

John nearly keeled over.

"What? Moriarty is dead. Blew his own brains out. He's not alive, Mycroft," he argued.

"He is alive, John," Mycroft replied, looking at the man with pity and using his first name (which was something he rarely did).

"He sent me a message last night, John. He is alive."

John swallowed and folded his soldier arms across his chest.

"Of all the bloody things, how the f—" John was cut short.

"Language, John; there is a woman present," Sherlock reproached, nodding in Irene's direction. Irene was sarcastically tut-tutting and shaking her head disapprovingly at John.

He rolled his eyes and nodded his head for Mycroft to proceed.

"Miss Adler has been in touch with Moriarty ever since then. She's gained his trust. They have cooperated on a number of assignments under my supervision. He knows nothing of course; he still trusts her from when they worked together in the past. However, she is our eyes and ears into everything he does. Her cover is secure."

Sherlock's brow was furrowed in what looked like annoyance mixed with a hint of confusion. His mouth was slightly ajar.

"What? And you never told me this? Mycroft!"

"I couldn't."

"Yes, you could've." It was John who spoke.

"Please stay out of this, Doctor Watson, you really don't want to involve yourself."

"Oh yes I do. We all do. We're here, aren't we?"

There was silence for a moment as John breathed contempt at Mycroft for what seemed to be a month.

Irene was drumming her fingers on her knees and saying nothing. It was all true. She had met Jim in Malaga, and it was he who had contacted her. It was the perfect opportunity. It was there, in Malaga, that he had let the announcement of his survival shatter England and the world. She had fed loads of intelligence to Mycroft, but Moriarty never suspected her.

She knew about Eurus long before Sherlock ever did. He had never told her of his plans with Eurus, but she knew that Sherlock and Mycroft were not the only Holmes children.

He was never in love with her, but he was fascinated with her ability to do what only people like her and him and Sherlock could do. He was fascinated with her just as he was fascinated with Sherlock, only she appeared to be on his side.

Mycroft continued.

"Since the final problem failed to destroy you, Sherlock, Moriarty has a new plan. He intends to take you down using Miss Adler once again."

Irene couldn't keep herself from smiling.

"He was very excited about this plan. He seems to think I can get into your head and understand you...in a way no one else can. You want to understand me. You're infatuated with my mind. You're intrigued by me. He wants me to undo the knots that tie you together."

She looked at him with a smile that was almost malicious. Her eyes were glimmering mischief, and it opened the door of his mind palace to caution. He was nervous as he gazed at her.

Mycroft cleared his throat.

"Of course, we intend to imply Moriarty's plan as successful, but in truth, we will destroy him at his own little game. He trusts Miss Adler completely, as do I."

"How do I know she isn't playing again?" Sherlock asked, still staring at Irene, who was also letting her eyes twist his insides with her resolute stare.

"You don't. But I do. You must trust me, Sherlock."

"And me, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock showed no external sign of hesitation, but red flags were going off inside his mind. The last time he had let himself grow attached to Miss Adler in the middle of a situation involving Moriarty, things had almost ended disastrously.

"And, I hate to do this to you, brother mine, but for this to work, you need play the part of a lover. I'm not asking for anything indiscreet, but I am asking that you do your best to act in love with and..." (he cleared his throat), "you must marry Miss Adler."

"Marry?"

"It's the only way we can make this convincing, Sherlock." For once, Mycroft actually looked sorry for the fate he had prescribed to his brother. He was all sincerity as he said, "To live with someone is never enough. It could end any minute, and then where would that deep love and passion be? No, no. To marry someone is to truly say something, and if Moriarty sees you marry the inexplicable Irene Adler, he will believe his plan to have succeeded, and he will believe you so madly in love. Unless you were truly and utterly in love, he would never suspect you of someone subject to making a matrimonial commitment or willfully experiencing domestic bliss."

"Nor I," Sherlock scoffed, standing as if his coat were made of pine needles.

"The Philistine sends Delilah to his Samson," sighed Mycroft, using the crude Biblical analogy.

"Samson never married Delilah," Sherlock parried.

"Exactly, and where did that go?" Irene chirped.

"Then let me ask why, if Miss Adler is in league with Moriarty, did she turn up on our doorstep last night half dead?"

"It was a lure, Sherlock. A lure. Nothing more," Mycroft replied, his mouth resembling the bent pipe cleaner once again.

"He had his goons beat me, of course," Irene cut in, "so it couldn't be proven fake by your immaculate powers of deduction, Mr. Holmes. But it was done to ensure you would keep my secret and help me...just as he knows you did in Pakistan."

"Then why would he send me a photograph of you beaten?"

"To make you think I'm in hot water with him. Which is what I was supposed to be telling you now. Which is what he thinks I'm telling you now. I secure your heart in my hands, I undo you, and then I feed your mind to him. Of course, it shall all be a bluff, but I wouldn't mind securing your heart in the process—,"

"Sherlock," Mycroft pleaded, interrupting Irene's wandering flirtations, "with Miss Adler on our side, we can dig deep into Moriarty's network and bring him down. The only way we win is if we play along with him and let him think he wins. Then we all win. The last time we thought he was beaten, you were forced to fraudulently commit suicide...a very realistic feat, which caused his plans to go to hell," Mycroft ended dramatically, lowering his voice for effect.

"But the spider has recovered, Sherlock; he is spinning his web once more. The pieces are in play, and he wants a rematch. We need to act. We need to play along once more, and this time, finish him. This is how we take down Jim Moriarty."

Sherlock was picking at his upper lip. His mind was a carousel of whirring signals. Warnings. Ideas. Fears. Temptations. He looked at the desperate face of his brother, one he had only seen on certain occasions. Mycroft needed him. He turned to the face of John, who was staring wide-eyed out the window, his arms were still crossed, and he drummed his fingers on his forearms in worry. John was uneasy. John needed him. Finally, he let his eyes rest on the pensive figure of Irene Adler. She was looking at him unaffectedly, her lips clasped together like a locked gate, her head cocked to one side as if she were measuring the contents of doubt in the vase that was his mind. She looked neither afraid nor worried. She looked resolved. He was sure of the other two in the room, but her...did she need him?

"Can I trust you?" Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyebrows ever so slightly.

"Yes."

It was low, instant hiss. Without hesitation. Her mouth was twisting into an odd smile, which made Sherlock feel as though a parasitic worm were writhing in his bowels. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them, she looked away. Her nails became fascinating, and she left Sherlock's gaze dangling in midair.

His breath was like the rattle of soldiers' armor before an approaching battle.

"With all due respect, Mycroft, but you cannot—no wait, hang on—will not force me into marrying anyone. I've told you before that I am married to my work, and this" (he gestured angrily at Irene) "this..."

He was at a loss for words, and he loathed himself for it immensely. He didn't know what to say next, and there she was, sitting in the chair as if she owned it, penetrating his gaze and twisting his insides. He was annoyed when he found himself enjoying it. All he wanted was to get lost in those deep, blue eyes again. To lose himself in her gaze like he had in Berlin...like he had by the fire those few years ago.

The time since they had seen one another had been long. He didn't realize how much he had pined for her in her absence. Perhaps being married to her wouldn't prove so horrible after all. His stomach danced a little at the idea.

Damn you, sentiment.

Irene smothered his efforts of self-reproach.

"This what, Mr. Holmes? Don't look at me; this wasn't my idea. Nevertheless, I don't think I'll mind it terribly. Do you?"

Sherlock's gaze was calm, but as he looked on her, he decided that he wouldn't mind at all. Besides, he had almost married Janine in an attempt to solve a case, and he hadn't even been in love with her. At least it would be easier for him this time.

She had asked him if he would have minded terribly being married to her, and he decided not to answer. It was amorous of him not to. He didn't even know himself, and he resolved upon letting the emotions come when they did.

He would know soon enough.

Irene knew she had struck a chord within him. Every muscle on her face begged for the permission to smirk victoriously, but at her orders they remained placid as water upon a lake. Her eyes were brimming with mirth.

She decided that this little adventure of theirs would be fun.

A game.

She continued to stare at him flirtatiously. Emotions were firing off like cannons on a battlefield inside her mind.

The whole time these thoughts played in their heads, they were staring one another long and hard in the eyes. John coughed, hoping to break the humid tension, but nothing happened. So he started scratching the back of his sweaty neck. Mycroft looked away; the scene felt too intimate to look upon.

"I consent," Sherlock resolved, his eyes still latched on to Irene's cold ones.

"And I already have," Irene replied, her lips forming the words as if they were made of chocolate. The muscles in her face were given a compromise, and she let them create a vanquishing smile to break the still lines of skin beneath her nose.

"Yeah, me too," John agreed, sniffing and pulling himself out of a deep reverie. Irene and Sherlock ended the staring game to look at the little soldier with his arms crossed over his chest...as if either of them needed his consent.

Sherlock thought to himself, "please, John."

Mycroft was incredibly uncomfortable.

"Good, then," Mycroft said, standing upright and walking toward the door. Sherlock deduced he was anxious to depart. "I'll leave you to it. Not a word, Doctor Watson."

"Yeah, I know," John replied, used to Mycroft's paranoid secrecy. In fact, the doctor enjoyed it immensely.

The door shut behind Mycroft Holmes and the two men were left in the room with the woman and the baby.

"Alright, from the beginning, let's go," John blurted, rising from his chair and standing square in between Sherlock and Irene, his eager eyes going back and forth between them both like a tennis ball flying between racquets.

Irene took advantage of the cushy armchair as soon as it was vacated.

Recounting their past meeting in Berlin to John was just as difficult as Sherlock had anticipated.

"Well, after the Fall—that is, when I faked my death—I met her in Berlin. We spent the night at a hotel, and that was the first time I had seen her since Pakistan," Sherlock said. He was about to continue, but John stopped him.

"In Berlin."

"Yeah, Berlin."

"You spent a night in Berlin?"

"Yes, why?"

"With her?"

"Yes, John!"

"What did you do?"

"Well...we ate dinner," Sherlock stated, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably.

"And?" John quizzed.

"We talked," Sherlock added.

"And?"

"Well, we went to sleep, I suppose."

"Slept?"

"Yes."

"In the same room?"

"Yes—well—not the way you imagine, John, but—"

"Oh my god..." John cradled his forehead in agitation.

"No, not like that, John. We were in the same room, but nothing happened, I swear."

John looked at Irene with suspicion. She was finding his armchair incredibly comfortable, and both her feet were crossed over one side. She was drinking coffee, but she looked up to meet John's dubious gaze.

"Nothing I could have done would have made him do anything," she said. "You can trust what he says. Nothing happened, Dr Watson. He doesn't like misbehaving with me."

John shifted his stance uncomfortably. The topics of both Sherlock and romance never settled well with him when they blended, even though he had always hoped for his friend to finally fall in love. It was an awkward concept. His friend, the high-functioning sociopath, falling in love with a woman seemed a strange, abstract idea. Nevertheless, John always hoped.

Perhaps his hopes were finally coming to fruition.

Sherlock was about to go on with the Berlin tale, but he glanced Irene's desperate eyes.

"Don't tell him, please don't tell him," they pleaded.

The rape.

Of course.

Was that water he saw forming in her eyes?

His benevolent gaze reassured her.

"Your secret is safe," it seemed to say.

Sherlock clasped his hands together and began instead to discuss the many times he and Miss Adler had spent sleepless nights texting from different corners of the world.

He glanced in her direction again. He chided himself: how he craved her approbation!

Her eyes smiled for her neutral lips. They spoke on their own. They sighed in relief.

The corner of his mouth jerked upward at the sight.

After a few moments of explanation, Sherlock stopped for breath. John took the opportunity to ask a question that had been gnawing at his brain since Irene had arrived at 221b the previous night.

"So you still doing the uh...well, you know..." John asked Irene.

Irene raised her eyebrows at the doctor.

She rose from the chair and casually strode towards the window, taking the route behind Sherlock's back.

"God, no. I've moved on to much bigger and better conquests, haven't I, Mr. Holmes?"

She was behind Sherlock as she spoke, brushing his shoulders with her hand. The detective was following her with his peripheral vision. John turned a bit red: he understood her innuendo all too well.

Indeed, Sherlock was quite the conquest.


	6. The Kiss and the Case

John left with Rosie an hour later, and Irene was left alone with Sherlock at 221b Baker Street.

Irene was still a bit sore from her night of excitement, and every time she settled down into a chair, she did so with closed eyes and cautious movements. Sherlock said nothing about her pain. She was defensive, and he knew she would reply with salty insensitivity and disregard for his inquiries.

Sherlock, for one, was pacing the room, his hands in his pockets, and his mind racing incredibly fast. He walked toward the window and let his eyes examine the streets of London below. His thoughts reminded him of the cabs: always moving, but occasionally stopping for some odd reason on the side of the road.

London.

He couldn't bear to be anywhere else.

"I'd say someone was agitated, but I don't want to risk stating the obvious," Irene commented, walking toward Sherlock's statue-like figure at the window.

"You just did." His response was curt.

"Oops," she joked.

"Something isn't adding up," he whispered to himself.

"What?" she asked, genuinely wanting to know.

"You," he replied, turning to face her with lines on his forehead.

"Me?"

"Yes, you."

"What about said person?"

"Why are you on my side of the game against Moriarty this time? God knows you weren't last time."

"For goodness sake, you're a lousy lover, Mr. Holmes. Is affection not enough of a reason?"

"In your case, no."

"Picky man...how can I ever convince you?"

She stood erect before him, looking into his face with obstinate resolve. She pushed a few wayward locks behind his ear. He looked down at her without moving his head, which was still positioned straight ahead.

Taking a step closer, she brought her face a little closer to his. He didn't know why, but he did the same. He put his hands about her waist, and she clasped her hands around his neck.

He was angry with himself again.

"Sentimental idiot! Pull your hands back!"

Sherlock was conflicted. He did want to kiss her, but he had never kissed someone with a desire to. Sure, there was Janine, but he never loved her. In fact, every time she had bent down to kiss him, he had desperately wanted to rinse out his mouth with bleach after she had left.

No, Irene was different...somehow. He wasn't sure he wanted to ask himself how. He was continually drawn to her...drawn to her against his own will to live.

While much more determined and surer in her pursuit, Irene was thinking many thoughts as her lips approached Sherlock's.

"You're getting carried away again, darling. Enjoying yourself...enjoying yourself too much..."

Sod this—nothing was wrong with a little enjoyment. Besides, her lips had touched many. She was probably his first one. That thought made her redden just a touch. For once in her life, she was almost embarrassed of her experience. With him here, she was almost ashamed...

Pish, don't be a fool.

Nevertheless, what was it about the anticipation of this kiss that seemed so much more exciting? What was it about Sherlock Holmes? What was it about the virgin? What was it about him that did this...this to her? Of all the people, why him?

Their lips brushed. They weren't kissing yet...just...what word would describe it?

Hovering? Investigating?

No matter.

She wouldn't do it; she waited for him to finish it.

He took the initiative and pressed his lips to hers.

Then she matched his touch.

They kissed.

Sweet, tender, and peaceful.

It was the first time their lips had ever touched, even though it had been attempted, teased, and dreamt of by both before. They stood there by the window, locked in an embrace and unashamedly kissing. Sherlock was surprised at his own feelings of gratification. He was taken aback at the fire kindling in his stomach. Irene was elated, and she found the moment utterly euphoric. It was full of passion, surely, but it never descended into violence as many kisses are apt to do. She liked that about this kiss. It just was. It didn't have to be anything else.

It was over after five long seconds of indescribable discovery: felt on both parts.

She was delighted with herself as she came away. She had finally kissed him uninterrupted! And it had been everything she had ever anticipated...and more.

He was scolding himself for not having pulled away sooner...and for having enjoyed himself against all reason. Every bone in his detective body was begging to jump for joy. But, he wouldn't. As ever he was, Sherlock looked thoroughly equanimous despite his internal emotions.

"You're not so bad," she cooed, letting her eyes run over his face. "Especially for not having ever kissed a woman before," she added.

"Who says I've never kissed a woman before?" he parried.

"Oh, so I'm not the first?"

"We both know I'm not yours."

"True...but still...what was her name?"

"Janine."

"Oh, yes; you mean the one who worked for Magnussen? I'm surprised at you, dear."

"I won't even ask you how you knew."

"I wasn't pleased, you know."

"I wouldn't have expected you to be."

"Bit average for your taste, wasn't she?"

"Do you see her here?"

"You satirist."

"You did ask me."

"I was being facetious."

A deep laugh came from within his chest, and he was smiling cautiously.

Irene pulled him in for another kiss, and as their lips were about to collide for the second time, it was cut short. Sherlock's eyes scrambled to the door, and he lifted his chin out of her lips' reach to stop her in her pursuits.

"What?" she asked, looking in the same direction as he.

"Do quit loitering at the door and come in, Greg," Sherlock ordered, his hands still around Irene's waist (and hers around his neck).

The door apprehensively creaked open on the two lovers, and Greg Lestrade, detective inspector for Scotland Yard, appeared. Every inch of his face was covered in pink. He was wringing his hands raw and trying to make sense of the woman in Sherlock's arms.

"Afternoon," Lestrade said. He was obviously having a hard time saying anything. Sherlock was thankful he had managed an "afternoon."

"I erm—I just thought I'd drop in and see how everything was—," Lestrade didn't make it to the end before the detective pounced upon him.

"No, that's never why you're here, Greg. You didn't just 'drop in to see how everything is.' You're still in working clothes, you've barely eaten all day, you keep looking at the clock, and you are obviously agitated. Sit down," he said, taking his hands from Irene's waist and gesturing towards the client chair.

"Sit down?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock's eyes said only one thing: "don't test me, child."

"Yes, Greg, sit down! There's obviously something on your mind. There's always something on the mind of the infamous Scotland Yard, isn't there?"

Greg was not only looking with perplexity at Sherlock, but at Irene, who was still standing by the window. Her hands were now at her sides, but Greg was still living back five seconds ago when they had been around Sherlock's neck.

"Er, yeah, right," Greg mumbled, rubbing his hands together and sitting down into the client's chair. Irene strolled over towards John's chair, crossed her legs, and looked intently at the inspector in preparation to hear his narrative. Sherlock was impressed at how assertively she had taken John's position. It suited her nicely.

"D'you...d'you mind just introducing me real quick?" Greg nervously queried. His face would have given someone the impression that he was tight roping across a volcano. How skittish he was to be asking such questions!

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Greg, this is Miss Adler," he said, gesturing to the woman in the arm chair. She smiled sweetly, which made Sherlock want to gag. "Miss Adler, Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"A pleasure, inspector," Irene said, taking Greg's hand and pressing it gently.

"So you uh—are you and Sherlock..." Greg's voice trailed off.

"Old friends," Irene finished for him. Her face was completely innocent as she spoke.

"Friends? Well, that's just dandy, innit? Lovely, that is," Greg chirped with enthusiasm. Sherlock was deeply agitated. Greg was much too happy at Sherlock's new "friend," and Sherlock knew why. He could read the inspector as easily as a driver reads a neon road sign.

"Please," Sherlock interrupted the Greg's bursts of excitement with authority. "I don't have all day, so if you don't mind starting at the beginning so we can clear this up quite soon?" He put his fingertips together and eyed the inspector with an expression that implied extreme hurry.

"Oh, yeah, right," Greg began.

"Well, we found this—"

"We don't have all day," Irene interrupted, looking steadily at Sherlock.

"That's what I said—," Sherlock replied.

"No, you said I don't have all day. There's two of us, you know; do be polite, darling."

Sherlock's face was a tomato with a mop of raven black hair. Greg had never seen him so red before, but he decided that something new is learned every day. He stifled a chuckle with a cough.

"Yeah, well, as I was saying, we found a body down by Shepherd's Bush this morning: twenty-one-year-old Arthur Wellington. Mr. Wellington got off the Overground at the Market station around midnight, at least that's what his Oyster tells us, and he died near his flat on Sterne street at around one o'clock in the morning."

Sherlock was intrigued.

"How far was he from his flat?"

"Only a few feet," Greg replied. "He was sitting in a chair on the front steps."

"So either he was killed on the way home...or he made it home, and something disturbed him, and he was murdered when he went to investigate the disturbance. Fascinating. Cause of death?"

"Knife to the throat. The crime scene was messy."

"But what's so different about this than other homicides in London? There's a few every month, so why are you consulting me on this one in particular?"

"Well, that's what I was about to say next. Wellington was wearing a party hat, which is unusual for a victim. He was sitting upright in the chair, which is also unusual given the circumstances of his death. But what really made us consider the abnormalities of this case was the fact that his middle finger on his left hand was wrapped in a bow—a gift bow, mind. There was a tag tied to it, and, well..." Greg reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic bag holding evidence. Inside was indeed the gift tag he had described.

Irene handed Sherlock a pair of disposable gloves. She had already retrieved them from the kitchen the moment Greg had mentioned "his middle finger." Sherlock took them without even thinking or thanking her for her efforts. He pulled them on, and the minute they slapped down on his hands, he opened the bag.

Sherlock inspected the tag with sociopathic scrutiny. Irene stood next to him and hovered over his shoulder to observe his deductions.

"The murderer wrote this after killing Wellington, see there's a bloody fingerprint on the corner there and some smudge marks on the whole thing. We'll need a sample of the blood later. Then there's the words 'housewarming gift' on the front. That's a male's hand, obviously; presumably Moriarty's. Who else leaves a gift tag on a corpse? But then maybe not...he doesn't like getting his hands dirty, does he? The ribbon is expensive: brand new" (he smelled it and felt it) "and it's still crisp like it is when you get it off the shelf. The murderer went to some lengths to make this look aesthetic, which also points to Moriarty. You found the corpse this morning?" Sherlock suddenly halted his deductions and turned to Greg with the question.

"Yeah, about six o'clock his next-door neighbor, a Mrs. Windsor, woke up to let out her cats and saw him on the front porch. He'd been dead for about five hours, so we clocked his death at around one in the morning."

"So he was murdered last night..." Sherlock said, his voice tapering off with his thought process. If Moriarty sent a housewarming gift to him to be found this morning, but it was sent last night, then he knew Sherlock would consent to Irene's staying with him the night before. It was a housewarming gift not for him...but for Irene. Irene in 221b.

Her home?

"My, he's good, isn't he?" Irene mused, trying to catch Sherlock's eye.

But the detective was still wandering through his mind palace and didn't notice her comment.

Still holding the tag in his hands, Sherlock was lost in a reverie of thought. Moriarty knew I would welcome her in...he knew...

"The paper is Swiss," Irene cut in, taking the tag with her own newly gloved hands. Greg coughed again. She held it up to the light and grinned.

"As I thought, Mr. Holmes; see the watermark?"

He shook himself out of his thoughts and scowled.

"There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact."

"Am I deceptive in your eyes?"

"No, just late."

She sighed.

"Fine," she remarked, handing him the tag and heading into the kitchen to make tea.

Sherlock disregarded her departure, took a note of the paper's origins (which he had not noticed before her clever deduction), and continued talking to Greg.

"Will you come?" the inspector asked, his eyes urgently beseeching the genius to follow him. "Anderson's out sick today; if you were going to ask."

Sherlock sported his boyish grin. "Perfect," he replied, practically launching himself out of the chair and nabbing his coat off the rack. "I'll be home soon, Miss Adler; do stay out of trouble. Let's be off, Greg. The game is on!"

Sherlock leapt to the door, but was interrupted by Irene's voice.

"Well, I'll do my best to stay out of trouble, but I can't see how I'd do anything stupid as I'll be with you the entire time. You can keep your observant gaze on me since you're so worried about my actions." She turned away from him and strutted to the bedroom, asking herself, "where's my coat?"

Lestrade's eyes looked like that of a bullfrog with a hyperactive thyroid. "Is she..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shrugged.

Irene returned in an instant, wearing the coat she had come wrapped up in last night; it was identical to Sherlock's, and Greg couldn't help himself but start laughing.

"Blimey! Couple of twinsies, you are!" he chuckled, and Irene smiled pathetically at him.

Sherlock's face was on fire, and he would not permit the woman to leave the house wearing the exact same coat as his own. Moriarty was smart, wasn't he? Oh, yes...he was a child pushing all the buttons on an elevator. Sherlock's buttons were flashing red; nearly ready to explode any moment. Irene simpered at him. She was too pleased with herself, and Sherlock both detested and admired her facial expression.

"Ready?" she asked, but her question was directed at Greg, not Sherlock.

"Uh, yeah, if Sherlock's..." Greg's voice disintegrated into thin air.

As the infamous Mr. Punchline, Sherlock Holmes was without words for the woman. This wasn't the first time she had put him to silence, but it was another moment of extreme annoyance and awkwardness for the detective. He wanted to tell her to stay put, to stay out of his business, to leave him alone, for God's sake! but he couldn't...and he didn't really want to. She just stood there, looking at him with sarcasm, delight, resolution, and triumph written all over her female features. Sherlock was a wreck inside. He knew it was of no use arguing.

They had been kissing ten minutes ago, and now they were on the brink of World War III. How complicated they both were.

"Yes, let's go," he replied, striding to the door and holding it open for a coughing Greg Lestrade (who Sherlock thought was, by now, faking bronchitis) and a mischievous little woman(who patted his cheek and smiled victoriously on her way out).


	7. A Sudden Remembrance

They arrived at the crime scene about thirty minutes later, having taken a cab all the way from Baker street to Shepherd's Bush. Sherlock never particularly enjoyed Western London. It was loud, the air smelled crowded, and the streets were caked with over-trodden dirt.

The neighborhood of the murder, however, was quiet. Sterne street was peaceful, tranquil, and had the odd cat lady on practically every corner. The crime scene at the street's end was the only thing radically interrupting the serenity.

Police cars were parked all along the road in front of Wellington's home, and tape blocked off the porch. Sherlock led the way with Irene following by his side. Lestrade was doing his best to keep up behind them both, still relishing the image in front of him: Sherlock and a woman. What was the world coming to?

Wellington himself was still sitting in the patio chair in front of his flat and wearing the party hat. His neck was a pool of blood and was bulging with ripples of muscle and tissue. It was utterly disgusting.

The gate was open, and officers were going in and out collecting samples of blood, dust, and photographs. Sherlock walked through the open gate and stood over Wellington's body with his magnifying glass whipped out.

Irene was right behind him, her hands in her pockets. Their cheeks were nearly touching as she too squinted through the lens to inspect the victim's clothing. Her breath on his face was not tempting. It was annoying.

After Sherlock spent a few moments examining the fibers, Irene grew bored and turned to the victim's neck. It was slashed, surely, but there were markings on the skin, hidden beneath the blood. She instantly recognized them as possible signs of strangulation.

"Take a look at his neck, Mr. Holmes," she said, pointing to the marks on the man's neck. Sherlock investigated the area Irene had pointed out and also noticed the blue, bruised pattern streaking across areas of the man's neck.

"He wasn't killed with a knife to the throat, inspector," Sherlock deduced, snapping his magnifying glass shut and turning around to face Lestrade. Irene rolled her eyes. She had noticed it first.

"How do you figure?" Lestrade asked, his expression utterly clueless. Sherlock sighed. How stupid the poor devil was.

"See—" Sherlock began, but was interrupted by Irene. She cut in front of him slyly and began explaining their deductions to poor clueless Lestrade: "See around his neck, inspector? Those are marks of strangulation. You're telling me the killer made those after his death? No, he'd never be so clumsy. He was strangled—" she was also cut short. It was now Sherlock's turn to interrupt. He put his arm on her shoulder and edged slightly in front of her. Irene smirked. Playing the game was such fun.

"The cuts were made after his death; laceration wasn't the cause. He suffocated; he was choked..." Sherlock's voice trailed off. Then he started whispering to himself. "Then the killer cut his throat—made it look like he had been murdered that way. Interesting. Why would he do that? Why?" Sherlock racked his brain, and Irene started racking her own for possibilities.

Lestrade tried, too.

"Maybe...the killer wanted to keep his tracks clean, so people would think of him as a murderer with a knife. Instead of someone who prefers personal killing like strangulation?"

"No, no, no. Both methods are personal, not just the strangulation. There's got to be a reason. Was there a knife near the crime scene? Or any kind of sharp object? I have a feeling this killer likes to leave clues."

"Uh, yeah, there was, actually. It's back at the lab for analysis. We can head over there now if you'd like."

Sherlock's brain burst.

The lab.

Molly Hooper would be there.

It had only been a week since the Final Problem. It had only been a week since he had told her those words over the phone. It had only been a week since he had told her "I love you."

Lestrade waited for an answer, but Sherlock only swallowed and sniffed uncomfortably. He itched the back of his head and blinked a few times, trying to stall.

"I think I'll go a bit later, actually. I need to—er—stop by Baker street and pick up a few things. I'll go sometime this evening."

Lestrade was confused.

"You what?"

"Yeah, I'll come 'round later, Greg. Just let me know when the knife's ready to be analyzed. I don't want to rush you."

"It should be ready now; I had it taken in first thing this morning."

"Well, like I said, I need to stop by Baker street first and do a few things. I'll see you later tonight."

"Alright, then," Lestrade said, turning his back and walking in the opposite direction.

Irene noticed Sherlock's absent-minded behavior and knew exactly what it was all about.

"Don't think I'm oblivious to your confession to Miss Hooper, Mr. Holmes. Mycroft sent me the tape. Don't feel badly, darling. You always were so sentimental, and I wouldn't have expected any less from you. Though I am a bit jealous I wasn't the one put through to you. Would you have said those things to me, I wonder?"

Sherlock didn't respond, but he gave her his arm, and she took it.

Dear sweet Molly.

She had always been there for him. She had always defended him. She had always loved him. He hated himself for having said those three words to her on that fateful day. It was all he could have done to save her...or so he thought.

He did love her, but not in the way she had always hoped. He could always rely on her, and he had always trusted her. She had always counted. If it hadn't been for her, his "suicide" would never have succeeded. All he had needed was her, and she had given herself over to him completely.

But he could never let himself be more than a friend to her. After his explanation, he hoped she would understand. He prayed she wouldn't go and do something rash.

He would have to tell her, and it would have to be tonight.


	8. Holmes and Hooper

Sherlock left Irene at 221b at around four o'clock that afternoon and made his journey to St. Bartholomew's Hospital. He stood before it, looking it up and down. He seemed to be sizing it up. The hospital seemed as large as the worries throwing things out of sorts in his mind palace.

Molly Hooper was somewhere inside. Sometime soon he would be obliged to tell her all. He wondered if this was part of Moriarty's scheme, too. Undoubtedly it was. Moriarty knew how much Sherlock cared for Molly...and how much Molly cared for him. And to bring Irene back into his life only a week after having "confessed" his love to Molly was indubitably Moriarty's handiwork. It ripped the heart from Sherlock's breast.

He stepped inside, and without looking in any direction, he made his way to the lab.

But what if she was in the mortuary?

He'd check the lab first, then the mortuary. Besides, he was here to analyze the knife for clues, not explain anything to Molly Hooper. Though, if he were being honest, that was at the forefront of his mind.

Sherlock found the lab empty when he entered, but the knife was preserved in a plastic bag for him on the table near the microscope. Finding his lab gloves, he slapped them on and removed the knife from the bag.

It was surprisingly lightweight, for being such a large knife. Blood still stained the silver blade. The hilt also had blood on it, but that didn't matter as much to Sherlock. All he cared about were fingerprints.

Nevertheless, this murderer had been careful. The hilt was clean of all fingerprints. He must have used gloves when he slit Wellington's throat. Sherlock took samples of the blood from the blade and prepared them to be tested for DNA. The blood would obviously be Wellington's, but it was always worth checking. Perhaps the killer had cut himself during the murder, and his blood had mixed with the victim's. Sherlock seriously doubted the probability, but he prepared the samples all the same.

The door opened, and Sherlock nearly dropped the utensils in his hand. His wrists were shaking, and he feared they would betray him and shatter the precious samples. Molly Hooper walked through the door, sporting her neat ponytail and spotless lab coat.

"Oh!" she gasped, stopping in the doorway and fiddling with the sleeve of her coat.

"Sherlock! I—I didn't know anyone was still in here. I was coming to turn the lights off. Is that the knife they brought in earlier? The really bloody one?"

Sherlock's lip was shaking. He was on the brink of tears. He stared at dear little Molly, her eyes wide with confusion, excitement, and enthusiasm. What had he done? What had he done? He had never hated himself more in his life.

"Er, yes—yes, the one and the same," he replied, placing the objects down on the table to ease his fear of dropping everything.

Molly cleared her throat.

"How have you been? I haven't seen you or talked to you since the uh—well, you know."

Sherlock sniffed.

"I've been as well as I can be. How...how...uh, how have you been?" he asked. He wished he had never asked it. How had she been? How do you think she's been, you moron?

"I've been okay. Mostly work these days, not much time for anything else, really. It's been hard to do anything besides work."

Sherlock and Molly both stopped talking. They were just staring at one another from across the room. Both of their faces weren't that of new lovers. Both of their eyes were glistening with tears. Molly bit her lip. Sherlock inhaled sharply.

"Molly, I—," he began, but didn't finish.

"Don't. Please don't," she said, her voice choking up with tears long ignored. "It was your brother. He came by the day after...you know. And he—he..." she wiped her face and took a couple short, sharp breaths. "He told me what happened, Sherlock. He wanted me to hear it from him rather than you. I'm so sorry for all the pain I caused you, Sherlock," she sobbed, holding her hands over her eyes. "I'm so sorry! I've been a fool, following you around every moment like I'm some puppy dog. But I meant it when you told me to say it: I do love you. I always have, and it's always been true. I'm so sorry for everything! So horribly sorry! Oh, God!" she went to her knees and sobbed into her hands. Sherlock touched his face and was unashamed to find that he had tears on his cheeks.

He walked slowly toward the woman on the floor. No, Molly Hooper wasn't a woman. She was a girl. His girl. She would always be. He would always need her, and she would never push him away.

He was on his knees beside her, wrapping his arms around her and drawing her to himself. She sobbed into his shoulder, and the moment reminded him of when he had held his trembling sister on the floor of the abandoned house. He cradled her in his arms and held her head to his shoulder.

"Oh, God, Sherlock! Can you ever forgive me? I'm so sorry!" she wept.

He gently pulled her from his shoulder and positioned her in front of him, holding her shoulders firmly with his hands. She saw the glitter of water on his face, and that made her eyes widen just a touch.

"Molly Hooper, you listen to me. I am sorry for my failure to see through my sister's schemes. It is I who must be asking for forgiveness, not you. Don't you dare! Forgive me for having asked so much of you. I never meant to humiliate you or make an experiment of you. You have always been the most loyal of my friends—besides, perhaps, John," he said, rolling his eyes. She giggled through the veil of tears.

He continued.

"You've never disappointed me. You've always been there for me. If there was one person in this world who has been with me through the thickest of thick and the thinnest of thin, it has been you, Molly Hooper. I didn't lie to you on the phone that day. I do love you. Not in the way you would imagine, but nearly."

He took her hands and pressed each gently. Then he cradled her face in his hands and kissed her forehead.

"Molly Hooper, can you ever forgive me? I'm so sorry for the pain I've caused you," Sherlock said, his voice cracking under the weight of the sobs he was trying to hold back.

"Oh, Sherlock...you idiot. You still don't understand, do you? How could I not forgive you? It would be impossible not to," she responded, standing to her feet as he rose to his. They hugged tightly.

"Thank you, Molly—thank you. I don't know what I'd do without you," he said, still holding her in a vice-like embrace.

Molly's little voice sounded from somewhere in his jacket.

"Honestly, Sherlock, I don't know what you'd do without me either," she replied, elbowing him in the ribs and laughing. Sherlock let her go and chuckled under his breath.

It felt like a thousand pounds of bricks had lifted off his chest, and now he could finally live with himself again. As long as Molly was smiling, so would his heart smile, too.


	9. Wherein Irene Finds Herself Begging for Mercy

Irene was bored at 221b. There was no doubt about it. On a normal day, she wouldn't have let Sherlock go off into London by himself, leaving her at the flat like some commonplace woman left to tend to the home.

Nevertheless, as she always did, Irene had a reason.

She and Sherlock had returned to the flat after their time at the crime scene, and the two had done nothing incredibly exciting. Sherlock shut himself up (being sure to lock the door for fear of his chastity) in his bedroom and slept. Molly had disturbed his mind, and all he wanted to do was think. Irene was equally employed: she lounged on the sofa looking at her cell phone. Twitter wasn't going to update itself.

Scrolling through the feed made her bored after about a half hour, and she ended up setting her phone down on the floor. Closing her eyes, she stretched out on the sofa and let herself go limp.

Knock, knock, knock.

Her phone emitted the said noise and buzzed from the floor. Absentmindedly, she reached down to pick it up. The grin spreading across her face was trouble incarnate, and the message she read twisted it into devilry:

Hi. - JM x

She laughed under her breath. Her fingers hastened to reply, and they tapped the screen furiously.

Good Afternoon. - IA

She kept her phone open, watching as the message was "read" and Moriarty formed his response from the other end.

Is he dead yet? - JM x

Good things come to those who wait, dear Jim. - IA

Obviously. - JM x

So be patient. - IA

I know. - JM x

I think he's in love already. - IA

Not like he ever stopped. - JM x

I'm flattered. - IA

I saw him kiss you. - JM x

I know. Wasn't it clever? - IA

I couldn't believe he actually had his hands on you. - JM x

He's forgotten his own advice. - IA

What advice? - JM x

Just something he told me when we first met. - IA

Have you forgotten yours? - JM x

No. - IA

I know. - JM x

He's leaving in a few. - IA

Oh...? - JM x

To St. Bart's. - IA

Thank you, darling. - JM x

Anytime. - IA

Irene closed her eyes and shut the phone off as she sent the last text. She sighed and crossed her legs. How complicated this entire business was. It was fun, though. Playing two at the same time. She certainly had her fingers in too many pies.

She closed her eyes and let herself drift off.

The door to the bedroom opened an hour later and Sherlock appeared, ready to head to the hospital. He was wearing his coat, his scarf, and his phone was in his pocket. Irene opened her eyes to the sight of him and thought he looked dashing.

"Off so soon? I thought I'd ask for a little music. I'm dreadfully bored," she whined, putting her arm over her face in mock agony. Sherlock saw right through the act.

"How is Jim?"

"Oh, he's fine. I told him you'd be off in a few minutes, just in case you see him out there. Send him my love, would you, dear?"

"Of course," Sherlock replied. "Naturally, though, I think you'll be able to tell him yourself, especially since he's going to be here in a few minutes."

"You think he's coming here?"

"I know he is."

"If I see him, what do I say?"

"You know. You always do, don't you? I'll be back in a few hours. Give dear Jim my love!"

"Of course," she replied, holding her hands over her face and exaggerating a vexed exhale.

Sherlock smirked as he left the flat.

"Don't be late for dinner," Irene teased after him as he stood in the doorway.

"A bit of tardiness is good for us all, Miss Adler, and it's a virtue I intend to exercise tonight. I'll see you soon."

"Spoil sport," Irene called after him as he closed the door.

The door to 221b Baker Street shut, and Irene went to the window to watch Sherlock. He walked toward the street, hailed a cab, and was carried off in the direction of St. Bart's hospital. She wished she was out there with him, but duty called.

Jim would be here soon.

About twenty minutes passed before a knock came at the flat's door.

"It's unlocked," she said.

The door creaked open, but Irene was surprised to see Mrs. Hudson standing in the doorway instead of the expected visitor.

"Oh!" Irene said, trying to regain composure. "Sherlock's just gone out if you wanted—"

Mrs. Hudson shook her head.

"Oh, noo," the old woman piped musically. She had a cup in her hand, but she quickly set it down in the kitchen before turning back to Irene.

"No, it was you I wanted to see, love," she cut in, her wrinkly hands gripping her hips. Irene raised an eyebrow.

"Oh?"

"Yes. I remembered you from last night even though I couldn't place it. You're that one with the camera phone, aren't you? Sherlock said you were dead."

"Yes. I was supposed to be dead, and honestly, I should be. If it weren't for Sherlock."

"So he did save you? Oh Lord, I always knew...after a while, you know..." The old woman flailed her hands; trying to help Irene draw conclusions without saying anything.

Irene smiled at the old woman. She didn't know why, but she was happy at Mrs. Hudson's glee. For some reason, it brought her joy.

But the joy turned to worry as Irene saw Mrs. Hudson's cheery face turn serious. She was looking at Irene as though about to lecture her.

"Nevertheless, I wanted to tell you something. And I want you to listen hard, young woman."

Irene perked up a little. For another invisible reason, she felt respect for this woman.

"The last time you were here, Sherlock was...not his best. You did something to him, you messed him up, you did! and I've never seen anyone ever do anything to him like you did. When you were...dead, I suppose...the first time, that is...he went into such a fit of mourning I didn't know if he'd ever make it out. Always playing depressing music, hardly eating, barely talking. But he's Sherlock! I never understood it, but I think I do now, because you're back.

"But I want you to know something. I read all about you on John's blog. He has this story...oh damn! what is it? A Slanderer in Belgrave? Something? I never can tell.

"But, back to the point: I know who you are, Irene Adler, and if I ever catch wind of something brewing in that funny little head of yours, I swear, you'll hear from me, and so will Sherlock. Are we clear?"

Irene was thoroughly confused. Nevertheless, she nodded her head in accordance with the old lady's question. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't take no for an answer.

"Good, then," the landlady chirped, suddenly breaking her fiery expression and smiling at Irene sweetly. "Ooh, I meant to ask if you wanted some tea. Just this once; I was going to make some and wondered if you'd care for a cuppa."

Irene felt loyalty growing in her heart for this old woman. She was to be respected, obeyed, and cared for. She practically demanded it. Irene saw no reason why she shouldn't be a dear to her. In fact, she rather liked her.

"That's terribly kind of you, mum, but I think I'll just rest now. It was lovely...chatting with you," she said. Irene was puzzled with herself. Mum? How long had it been since she had called someone that?

"Same to you, dear; enjoy your rest, now. You'll need it with Sherlock around tonight," Mrs. Hudson replied, turning and closing the door behind her.

Irene was puzzled at Mrs. Hudson's last remark, but smiled all the same as she retreated out of the room and back down the stairs.

About ten minutes passed, and Irene was still rolling her conversation with Mrs. Hudson through her head when the door was pushed open. She had been lying on the sofa, and even as the door creaked ajar, she remained stretched out upon it.

"Well, well, how are things, Miss Adler?" Jim Moriarty drawled childishly and surveyed the room. He didn't even glance at her, but he could tell where she was sitting from peripheral vision. She knew that much. And she honestly didn't care.

"Jim," she replied, hoisting herself up into a sitting position at this point and eyeing him curiously.

"I thought you'd have followed him to the hospital," she said, acting surprised to see him. He was looking at the window, holding an apple from the fruit basket in his clammy palm.

"I thought I'd let him be for once. Just today. There's the rest of our lives to look forward to, isn't there?" he asked, his mouth slightly ajar as he searched her face for the answer to his bone-chilling question.

"I thought I'd come and visit my favorite dominatrix while I was at it."

"Favorite? You mean only," Irene parried, smirking playfully. Even though she no longer brandished the whip or tightened the chain, Jim was in the dark. He still believed her to be the sadomasochistic Delilah she had once been.

"No, I've got loads like you. But you're just my favorite one. None of the others do it as good as you."

"I'm flattered," she replied, her lips curving with satisfaction.

"Don't be," he said, grinning. "It's just what you were made for."

She stopped looking pleased with herself and straightened up in her position on the sofa. Jim was surveying her curiously out of the corner of his eye, but he still mainly examined London's atmosphere out the window.

She was about to speak before Jim interrupted.

"Oh, and I brought a friend. Do come in, Norton," he said, calling to a hitherto unknown figure in the doorway. Irene turned towards the door, and as she did, she nearly screamed.

"Mr. Godfrey Norton, I believe you've met Miss Adler before, isn't that right?"

All Irene wanted to do was run into the next room, shut the door, bolt it tight, and possibly kill herself. Anything to avert this man's gaze. Anything to keep him from looking at her. Anything but to look into the eyes of the man who had decimated her dignity. The rapist from Berlin was before her face.

He was still the same handsome faced German from before. His gaze was still lascivious. His eyes still played tricks with her head.

She remained cool as ever. Her voice did not break. It would not break, and she stood to her feet with calm collection, extended her arm, and shook the hand of Godfrey Norton.

"Mr. Norton," she said, smiling. "A pleasure to see you again."

"Is it?" he asked, reaching out to caress her cheek with the back of his hand.

She smacked it.

A chilling silence gripped the throats of each individual in the room, creating an awkward wave of mutual shock felt by all.

Moriarty started clapping and laughed.

"Ho oh, let's not misbehave now, dear girl," he hooted. "Let's not forget our manners!" he trumpeted, imitating the voice of a parent to their child.

"Played a hard game in Berlin with Norton, didn't you, Miss Adler? I heard he won. At least, that's what he said, eh?" Moriarty joked. Norton nodded and locked eyes with Irene as he made his response to Moriarty. The hairs on the back of her neck and back were erect, and goosebumps formed instantly every time her clothing barely rubbed against her skin.

"She's quite the woman, I can assure you," Norton said, letting his glance travel southward to subtly examine her form. She put her hands on her hips and bumped his shoulder as she walked past him toward the fireplace. She wouldn't be so scrutinized.

"I would've had him on his knees begging for mercy if I hadn't decided to let him have his way. No one likes a sore loser, and I can tell the type when I see one," Irene spat, pivoting on her heel to look both men in the eyes. She eyed Norton for the most part. He raised an eyebrow.

"What is the English expression? 'Takes one to know one?' Is that it?" he asked.

She didn't smile. Her mouth was twitching with anger, but beneath it all, what she felt most was fear and apprehension.

"What brings you to London, Mr. Norton?" she asked, ignoring his previous remark entirely.

The man didn't respond.

"Norton's in town on some business for me," Moriarty piped up. Irene gripped her hips with frustration, and her knuckles turned white. Norton looked down at them and smiled.

"Oh?" she asked. She caught sight of Norton's gaze on her hands and clasped them behind her back.

"Yes. I've got a friend here...a real good friend. Been a friend of mine for such a long, long time now. I get worried about them. Always doing what I want, never having time for themselves. I just want to make sure they're properly taken care of. Don't want anyone getting sidetracked either, do we? That's never fun," Moriarty said, shaking his head and blowing through his lips like a horse after a long run.

"So, I asked Norton here in to town, and he's going to be looking after them. He owes me a debt, and he's paying up. He's good, too...oh, so good, aren't you, dear?" he asked, turning to Norton, whose mouth was only pinned up at the ends. It was barely a smile.

Irene's stomach was a pit of worms. She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. God, she wanted Sherlock to come through the door and take her in his arms, for goodness sake! Anything than be in this room—here—with these two men—now. Every breath they took made her heart beat a little faster.

"We just thought we'd drop by for a proper chat. So good seeing you, Miss Adler. And I'm sure Norty here is just as glad, aren't you, Norty?" Moriarty asked, nudging the German with his elbow and smiling like the crooked genius he was.

Norton only tipped his head forward and eyed Irene beneath his thick, dark eyebrows. His face was a stamp of shadow. She truculently accepted his silent challenge and let her cold blue eyes fascinate his nearly black ones.

"Do come again, Jim. And please, bring your friend by all means. He's always welcome," she said, never once breaking her eye contact with Norton.

The villain chuckled to himself again.

"And if we don't come 'round, I'm sure you'll see us all the same. Sleep well tonight, Miss Adler. And good work, darling."

With that, both men retreated to the doorway, and Irene closed the door behind them. She waited until the downstairs door closed as well before letting her eyes fog up with the icy tears that she had been wrestling with during the whole interview. She stood there with her hand on the door; something like the claws of terror kept her there. Her insides were a frozen pit of nerves, and she was sweating everywhere.

Her limbs trembled. She sank to the floor, hunched forward on her knees. Her hands shook as she brought them to her face. She sobbed into them, let out a few screams of fury, indignation, fear, whatever it was she was feeling. There were so many things. She didn't do this often enough. Emotions were climbing over her walls of resistance and breaking the barricades that shielded her heart from the rest of the world.

She just sat there and wept.

He was clever. Moriarty had done something that had broken all bonds. She wanted Sherlock. She wanted him for herself, not for Moriarty. She was determined to have the detective for her own, and to beat the spider at his own little game.

And she began to think that he was catching on.

But now Godfrey Norton had changed things. He would examine and stalk her every move. What would happen if he discovered the worst? That she really did feel...things for Sherlock? She couldn't let herself be divulged. He was still a hungry man; she read it on his face when she had seen him mere minutes ago.

She decided that she wouldn't like this game as much as the others. This one was going to be so much harder.

But no. She would not despair.

You forget, Godfrey Norton, that you have not chosen any mere woman. You have chosen Irene Adler. And it is she you must answer to.

She brushed the water from her face and stood to her feet. She didn't scold herself for crying. Crying had always been good; it wasn't wrong to cry. Tears renewed one's strength. Besides, she took confidence in who she was: The Woman.

Her dominatrix power forsaken, she was still the clever, headstrong, resolute, tricky, strong woman she always ways: even without handcuffs at her disposal. She was still a woman.

She was still The Woman.

But what if The Woman wasn't good enough?

Godfrey Norton was everything she had ever feared. What if, just this once, he was better? What if this was the end of The Woman as she knew it?

She didn't want to know.

On the mantle she glanced three books; one of which was a Bible. It had been years since she'd even seen one. Picking it up, she opened it randomly. It was a small one. The leather spine fit in her palm. Letting her eyes focus on the first words she glimpsed, Irene read from Psalm 88:

Oh Lord, why do you cast my soul away?

Why do you hide your face from me?

Afflicted and close to death from my youth

up,

I suffer your terrors; I am helpless.

Your wrath has swept over me;

your dreadful assaults destroy me.

They surround me like a flood all day

long;

They close in on me together.

She couldn't read anymore; the words blurred into one long line of ink as her power of vision was ruined by quavering tears.

She threw the book onto the floor as if it possessed some ill will toward her. Why had she picked up that damned book? The words had driven a wedge into her already collapsing sanity, and she felt as though she might burst. She was angry, afraid, agitated. God, she was annoyed with everything and everyone. There was no God to love her. And if there was, surely He didn't care.

"Oh God!" she moaned, as she collapsed on the sofa in a fetal position.

"Oh my God! Have mercy on my soul!"

She fell asleep there with tears on her face, and the Bible was lying face down on the floor, the pages of Psalms smushed against the carpet.


	10. Restless as the Night

The next thing Irene saw was the door to the flat swinging open, and Sherlock storming through. He was in good spirits. His gait suggested things were well with little Miss Hooper, and this made Irene glad.

Then she remembered why her face was wet.

The flat was dark, so he couldn't see yet. Sherlock closed the curtains and switched on the lamps at the low tables. Irene lazily propped herself up into a reclining position. Sherlock switched on the lamp at his computer desk near the window. Turning around, he quickly studied her face as he walked from there to the kitchen. Her features were inexplicably plain and frozen.

"How long did you cry for?" he asked, illuminating the kitchen as he powered on the overhead lights.

"Long enough," she replied.

"Who else was here?"

"Jim came by."

"Besides him."

"No one."

"You're not fooling anyone."

"I know."

He was preparing a cup of tea in the kitchen, but stopped at these words. He watched her face and found it looking almost traumatized. He glanced the book on the floor.

"How far did you get in Psalms?"

She raised her eyebrows and craned her neck at the little book on the floor.

"Not far."

He chuckled.

"What?" she asked.

"No one ever does. Especially not Psalm 88, which is where the pages have stuck. I haven't touched that book in ages. What made you pick it up?"

"I don't know."

Sherlock's wheels were turning inside his mind. Something had happened to her. Something had gone wrong. She had opened a Bible, of all things. If he didn't find out on his own, he would never know what had occurred during his absence. Nevertheless, he wasn't worried.

Casually, he asked, "Have you eaten?"

"No," she replied, languidly.

"Are you hungry?"

"For what?"

"Food. Don't make jokes."

"In that case, no. I'm not hungry.... We could still have dinner all the same."

"Please, Miss Adler."

"Fine," she drawled, sighing at an exaggerated volume.

"I'm going to bed. I'll be waiting for you," she added, before rising wearily from the sofa and walking with an almost drunken stride toward Sherlock's bedroom.

"I'm sleeping in John's room tonight," Sherlock called after she disappeared in his bedroom.

She returned, hands on her hips as she leaned against the doorway coquettishly.

"Too bad," she said. Then swinging back around and heading back into the room, Sherlock heard her say, "I was planning on telling you the specifics of Jim's visit whilst we fell asleep."

Sherlock waited a few moments. He could hear her changing in the room, and decided he'd wait before going in. He heard the bed settle as it accepted her weight upon it.

He set the tea cup down and advanced toward the room like a soldier going to battle.

She was under the covers on the bed and staring at the ceiling. She wasn't wearing anything suggestive, unless the thin, white camisole from the night before can be considered that. He stood by the doorway, looking in at her from a safe distance.

"You can tell me now; we do have all night."

"Yes we do, don't we?" she asked, her eyebrows dancing on her forehead.

"I'm sleeping in John's room."

"You sure?"

Sherlock didn't answer. His stomach was starting to warm up again. The sensation was both alarming and attractive. He told himself he'd stay positioned at the door post. He would not let the lioness make an easy meal out of him.

"Not about you," he replied, ignoring her question about where he'd be spending the night.

"Me...what's so special about me? I'm much more interested in us, Mr. Holmes," she replied, her words smooth and tantalizing. She turned towards him and lay on her side, her hand resting on her hip. Sherlock was finding it difficult to stay focused.

He admitted, "So am I."

"Are you now?"

He bit his lip. This was getting to be more frustrating every minute. His own emotions were giving way and starting to slip out of his grip as he looked at Irene Adler invitingly positioned on his bed. He shook himself out of his sentiments and said:

"If you want my help, I'll give it."

"If you want my cooperation, you have to follow the rules."

"There are no rules in this case."

"There's a good lad."

Another moment of staring. Neither spoke.

He took a deep breath and huffed out, "Tell me what happened, Miss Adler. I need to know. To keep it from me is futile. I will know eventually."

"Then why should I tell you? Why shouldn't I make you wait?"

"Time is of the essence."

"Yes, it is, isn't it? And you're growing colder with every minute that goes by. Come lie down; it's much warmer over here."

Every limb in Sherlock's body was on fire. Irene was somehow utilizing the power of magnetics. Keeping his feet planted to the floor was one of the detective's most difficult of sentimental struggles. Nevertheless, the virgin stayed put.

Irene spoke next.

"This is what I love about you, Mr. Holmes. It's much more fun trying to catch something you can't have. Much more interesting. Makes the game ten times more exciting. Don't you agree?"

"It makes the end result much more rewarding."

"Ah, so you do understand. You do feel things, don't you?"

"I do."

"Then come have dinner with me."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

It was a simple question. Simply put. She put her hands behind her head and sank back onto the pillows. She crossed her legs and looked at him sardonically. She narrowed her eyes; she was indescribably flirtatious. He could see her mind on her face: she thinks she's caught me. She's right; this is what makes the game more fun.

"I'm waiting for us to be married."

Irene laughed. The sound was strange to him; he had never in his life heard her laugh. It was a beautiful noise, but in the context of the question he had posed, it was almost belittling. He reddened.

"Oh, is that it, then? A virgin indeed. Like I said before, 'you're always the good boy'."

"I am what I am."

His words were exactly the same as last time.

"I suppose you said the same to Janine, did you, dear?"

"I did."

"Of course you did. How incredibly chaste of you."

"Returning to the matter at hand—"

"Yes," she replied, sitting up entirely and crossing her legs beneath the blankets Indian style.

"You may as well reveal yourself, Miss Adler."

"How would you prefer I do so?"

He disregarded her innuendo.

"You may as well begin explaining, especially considering I had Mrs. Hudson bug the room when she came in earlier. She has your entire conversation recorded in her flat, so unless you want me to hear the tape, I suggest you begin telling your narrative."

The lascivious glances fled Irene's visage, and her eyes were growing larger every second. The cup. Mrs. Hudson had set down a cup in the kitchen when she had come in earlier. 

Irene began to breathe heavily and tears started welling up in her eyes. She would have to tell him. She would be telling him another secret; it was Berlin all over again.

"You son of a b—"

"Yes, call me whatever you like. I honestly don't care."

Sherlock was beginning to feel like himself once more. He was at least glad she was upset enough to start profaning him. It was better than watching her try to woo him.

"Now tell me," he took a few steps into the room so that he stood over the bed.

"Who else was here?"

Without tilting back her head to meet his gaze, she just stared forward into his frame. She didn't want to find his eyes or for his to find hers. She breathed through her teeth. Her nostrils flared. This was yet another moment of seduction that had utterly failed.

God, he really was so good.

"Fine," she rasped, running a hand through her dark hair.

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest, preparing for her narrative. But nothing prepared him for what she was about to say.

"He—he was here...the man was—oh my God, I can't believe I'm actually telling you this..." she said, nearly crying. Her voice escalated to a kind of exasperated sadness, and he noticed a few tears on her face.

"The man...from Berlin," she painfully admitted. The words were squeezed out in between her gritted teeth. It was as though each word were breathed out in between labor pangs.

"Jim brought him here and plainly enough reminded me of what I am to him. Plainly reminded me of what will happen to me if I lose sight of his intentions. He brought that filthy bastard into my presence and reminded me of what he had stolen from me. And God, I never wanted to scream so much in all my life, Mr. Holmes," she seethed. Wiping her face with aggression, she looked at her hands in her lap. Sherlock stood in the doorway with his eyebrows bending backward. He felt once more as he had in Berlin. What an intimate matter this was. Sympathy was massaging his mind.

"There. I've told you now. Are you satisfied? Are you content? You've won, Mr. Holmes. Fair and square. I've said it. Now just...please—get out...and leave me alone."

But this time, unlike last time, Sherlock wouldn't leave her alone.

Her eyes were still wet, but they were closed. She didn't want to look at him standing there in his triumph. The darkness of the room and of her closed eyes was enough to comfort her.

Then she felt slight pressure enveloping her, and she found herself being drawn into the arms of Sherlock Holmes: the arms she had always longed to occupy. She didn't open her eyes. She just rested her head on his chest and silently let out a couple of gasps. One or two tears squeezed their way out of her closed lids, but she wouldn't let herself make a scene.

This was enough already.

He decided that this kind of "embracing" thing was always a comfort to someone who was crying. 

Mary Watson had been the one to teach it to him. How proud she'd have been of him now, holding Irene to his breast as she silently wept in his arms. He could almost see dear Mary now, grinning at him in the doorway with her arms crossed over her chest. She was mouthing something at him in the darkness.

"Kiss her head. They always love that. I know I did, whenever things were wrong. John was brilliant at it," she said, nodding at him encouragingly.

Sherlock buried his lips in Irene's fragrant hair and kissed her. She sucked in her breath.

He could see Mary in his mind silently squealing behind the door and gripping her hands.

"It's alright," he told Irene, under his breath.

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

"Fine then, I won't be," she said. Her sarcastic spunk was returning. She felt a deep chuckle rattle his chest.

"I believe I have reason to trust you. And if I'm right, then we are... us. This is my fight as much as it is yours...

"Irene."

He had used her name. How many times had she wondered when he would call her by her first name? He had always called her "The Woman" or "Miss Adler," but never her first name. Saying it almost felt sacrilegious.

She went crimson as her name left his lips.

Lifting her head to meet his gaze, she stroked his cheek and said, "I believe you, Sherlock."

He would've like to look into her blue eyes for the rest of the night, but fearing what might happen to him (and knowing what was good for him), he planted a warm kiss on her brow, gently laid her down upon the bed, and stood up to walk back toward the door. As he prepared to shut it for the night, he whispered:

"Goodnight, Miss Adler."

She smirked at him from where she lay.

"Goodnight, Mr. Holmes."

And he closed the door.

Before retiring to his room upstairs, Sherlock picked up his violin and played the song he had written for The Woman nearly three years earlier. She could hear it from the bedroom, and the melancholic melody seemed to tell her that it was hers.

She fell asleep with a tranquil smile on her lips.

...

A muffled boom woke her dreams, and she opened her eyes slowly. There was an obnoxious pacing coming from upstairs, and the occasional boom to complete the pattern.

What the hell?

It had been going on for nearly an hour, and it was beginning to drive her quite mad. She switched on the lamp at the nightstand and checked her watch.

Three-thirty...oh dear God.

So this is what Mrs. Hudson's snide remark had meant earlier: "...enjoy your rest, now. You'll need it with Sherlock around tonight."

Sherlock was awake, and he was thinking. Thinking out loud.

Boom.

Quite loudly, it would seem.

She sighed, and decided she'd venture upstairs to his residence to see what he was doing. Wrapping herself in the robe Mrs. Hudson had lent her, Irene carefully tiptoed her way through the darkened flat toward the stairs ascending to John Watson's room.

The door was opened just a crack, and a stream of light cut the dark floor like a luminous ribbon. She pushed the door ajar wide enough so she could slip through. Sherlock was lying on the Doctor's bed, his head at the foot end. He was holding his violin in his hand and plucking the strings with agitation.

Irene was about to address him before he spontaneously jumped off the bed, landing on the floor with a thud.

So that's what the muffled boom had been, she thought.

Spinning around involuntarily, Sherlock caught sight of her standing in the room.

"What the hell are you still doing up?" Sherlock asked her. He was incredibly annoyed, and Irene could see it by the way his eyebrows moved around like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. His mouth was trying to form words that simply weren't there, and he was staggering backwards and forwards. It was like he was drunk on delirium.

"Same thing I meant to ask you," she replied, putting her hands on her hips and tapping her foot on the floor. If they hadn't looked so close in age, you'd have thought she was his mother.

"Too loud for you, is it?" he asked. His expression made her want to laugh out loud. It was frazzled, ridiculous, and almost hallucinogenic.

"Yes, quite. I came up here to tuck you in; you're going to bed, and you're going to bed now, Mr. Holmes."

"You don't have a whip on you, do you?"

"Please."

His brow furrowed, and he was perplexed as she guided him toward the bed. He wasn't wearing pajamas, but she obviously didn't care. Shoving him down, she tucked each leg under the blankets and pulled the sheets up to his shoulders.

"What was keeping you awake anyhow?" she asked him, running her hand through his black curls. Sherlock's brain prickled.

"An unanswered question," he replied, closing his eyes.

"Which was?"

"Why the murderer left such a sloppy trail of clues for me."

"Maybe he likes watching you. I can sympathize with the notion."

"It has to be something more. Moriarty is never so simple."

"Don't think everything has to be so clever, darling. Most things rarely are."

This statement of hers piqued his interest. Hadn't Moriarty mentioned the exact same thing before? Hadn't he believed it to be Sherlock's weakness?

It called to mind their final battle on the roof of St. Bart's: "I knew you'd fall for it. That's your weakness. You always want everything to be clever."

Irene leaned over and kissed his cheek.

"Goodnight, then."

"Mmmm," he mumbled, pulling up the blankets to his face.

She turned off the light before whispering one last time, "Goodnight, Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

She closed the door and returned to her own room, leaving Sherlock to think in the dark: both about Moriarty's riddles and the comforting sensation that a woman had just tucked him in to bed with a goodnight kiss.


	11. Frightening Familiarity

The sun peeked into 221b Baker Street the next morning, and a little ray sat across Sherlock's face. It landed gently on his eyes, and he squinted awake. He didn't normally let himself sleep so long, and as he opened his eyes to the sight of the sun high in the sky, he panicked a bit.

Like a reflex, he shot up in bed, and his feet hit the floor. His curls were bedraggled around his face, and he was alert (and appalled with himself) after having nearly seven hours' worth of sleep.

That's right: Sherlock Holmes had slept in until ten o'clock.

Joggling himself out of bed, he shook his head of coal black curls and stretched his eyes as wide as they would. He had things to do, questions to answer, mysteries to solve. He'd already spent enough time sleeping, for God's sake.

A sleepy feminine voice poked a hole in his mind.

"What time is it?"

Sherlock whirled around to find Irene rubbing her eyes, stretching, and smiling with sleep still hanging on her features. Her long hair was frazzled all over the pillow, but strangely enough, Sherlock thought she was beautiful.

Ugh, stupid thought. He whooshed it away and demanded:

"What the hell are you doing there?"

"I get lonely at nights, so when I can, I get company. And you're such a sound sleeper, so...ta da."

Sherlock felt hilariously violated.

"Please tell me you didn't do anything to me while I was sleeping."

"Like what? What do you think I'd do, darling?"

"Kiss me or something."

"Calm yourself, Mr. Holmes. Not like you'd have noticed anyway. You snore so loud you could wake the nation. But don't worry: the most physical contact we had was my hand on your nose. I should also mention how fun your cheekbones are to play with."

"Oh for God's sakes," he muttered, ruffling his hair with violent enthusiasm.

"Does this mean we can bunk up again tonight?"

"I never said it did."

"But I was good, wasn't I, Mr. Holmes?"

He turned toward her and just stared for a moment. It was almost hilarious. No, it was hilarious. It was in this moment that he realized he would never mind being married to her...well, when they were married.

"Remarkably," he replied, grinning mischievously before leaving the bedroom.

She let her lips pop into a coquettish smile as he closed the door.

An hour later, both the detective and the woman had finished showering and had congregated in the sitting room. Irene was reading, and Sherlock was studying his case file. Neither of them remembered breakfast, but even if they had, there wasn't much that would compel them to create edible sustenance.

Sherlock was never much of a cook, and he had never had to be, especially since John was picky and did all the cooking. Irene had never even touched a pan, considering she had always employed maids to do that sort of thing.

Not to say either of them didn't enjoy food.

Irene had finished dressing before Sherlock, and when he found her in the living room, she was reading Macbeth by the fireplace, wearing the yellow pastel dress. Her hair was hanging loose down her back, and although her face was free of cosmetics, it was nonetheless beautiful.

Once again, he found her bewitching, but reminded himself that he did not have the time to dwell on such trivialities. He naturally asked (as men often do) about food. She raised an eyebrow, turned a page, then keenly eyed him as if to ask what she had to do with the matter of nourishment.

"And?"

"I thought you'd have made something by now," he retorted, straightening his coat collar and walking toward where she reclined. Instantly he wished he'd have said something else.

She was appalled.

"Do I look like I know how to cook?"

"Well, someone's got to."

"What do you normally do when the dear doctor is out?"

Sherlock shifted in his position uncomfortably. The truth was, he didn't do anything for food when John was out, unless it was a measly attempt at consumption. A biscuit here or there, cup of tea...perhaps an apple or a bag of crisps. Really, though, Sherlock was never one for eating, especially since it slowed him down on busy days: as was today.

Had he really expected her to cook for him? What an imbecilic thought. Irene Adler did not cook; she made others do it for her.

"Oh my God, don't tell me you don't even eat, Mr. Holmes. You're hungry on a number of levels, aren't you?" she asked, twirling one of her long brown locks around her fingers.

"I haven't the time. What do you suppose I do? No, wait—don't answer that; what do you normally do?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest, squaring his feet apart, narrowing his eyes, and biting his lower lip.

She squirmed.

"As I thought," he replied, heading into the kitchen and situating himself at the table. He had brought home Wellington's case file with him and was preparing for analysis and deduction.

Irene set down Macbeth and silently slipped on her shoes. She wanted to eat, but wasn't about to cook something and make a fool of herself. She had no money on her, since all her possessions were still at her hotel room (where she had not been since the day before she arrived at 221b), so she would have to get some from Sherlock...if he would give her any.

"Well, even you have got to eat—real food, I mean. If you'd loan me twenty pounds, I'll fetch something for us both. I'm starving."

"Give me a good reason," he said.

"I can name several. How many would you like to hear? The ones about malnourishment and anorexia, or the ones about cognitive decay and psychological corruption?"

"Fine," he replied, digging in his pocket for his wallet (without once looking away from the case file). He pulled out a fifty-pound note and handed it to her.

"Tres reconnaissant, Mr. Holmes," she said, snatching it up and sticking it in her breast pocket. "Much obliged."

"Of course," he replied with a gruff, musty whisper. He was scanning papers with a pen and anxiously highlighting important bits of information. This case would prove quite interesting.

The door downstairs opened, and Irene recognized the rhythmic gait of John Watson ascending the stairs. She decided to give the doctor a bit of a rush...as he always seemed to get whenever he saw her and Sherlock together.

The door opened as John came in holding Rosie on his hip. Irene stood behind Sherlock at the table with an arm resting delicately on his shoulder (which he eyed suspiciously) and said, "Let me know how the case comes. I'll be back in an hour or so, darling."

Then she kissed his cheek.

Sherlock went red.

John Watson coughed, as if to announce them of his presence, and Irene pretended to be surprised at his entrance.

"Ah, Doctor Watson! I was just about to head out to get some food; Our detective is not one for cooking, and we're both starving. I'll return soon, but for now, I'll leave you boys to play. Get along nicely, won't you? Oh, and did you want anything from Nando's? There's one around the corner, and I thought I'd get some."

John was aghast. He couldn't deny it: Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler were living together. It can't be said any other way: the little soldier was happy.

"Uh, yeah, that'd be great, thanks," he replied, throwing in a few unsettling laughs in the mix of his words to disturb the awkwardness he was feeling inside. "Just some chips for me and maybe a couple of drumsticks, too, if you could?" he asked, politely. Inside, he was beaming.

"Of course," Irene replied, throwing on her coat and heading for the door.

"I'll be back soon," she called.

"Yeah, cheers," John piped up, chuckling nervously.

This entire dialogue had Sherlock feeling as though there were pinecones in his clothing. He was red, and John was noticing.

"Afternoon...John," Sherlock said, deciding it was best not to look up from his papers as his face was a frankly alarming shade of pink and his fingers were shaking...ever so slightly.

"So is that it then?" John asked.

"Please, John, don't do the indirect queries."

"Indirect queries? Sherlock, you've got yourself a bloody girlfriend."

"Please, John," Sherlock practically groaned.

"You do. You expect me to believe otherwise?"

"It's funny, but yes, I do."

"How was last night?"

"Nothing happened last night, John."

"Yeah, okay," he spat. The doctor sniffed abruptly, wrinkling his nose the way only he could. He was annoyed that Sherlock wouldn't just confess to it. It would make things a lot more fun for him.

"How's the case coming, then?" John asked, trying to change the already tense ambience of the little room. Rosie started fussing.

"Confusing, but...exciting," Sherlock said, his tone escalating at the last word and his eyes glinting with maniacal enthusiasm.

"A knife to the...throat, was it?"

"No, made to look that way. On purpose, it would seem."

"So how did he die?"

"Strangulation."

"Strangulation? Jesus, that's awful. Horrible."

Sherlock made no response. He knew John was beating around the bush, and it was annoying him.

"Heard from Moriarty since...the last time?"

"Nope."

"Ah, well, that's good then," John replied.

"Not necessarily."

"How so...?" The doctor's voice trailed off.

Sherlock looked up from his case file and looked at John for a moment before hesitantly admitting, "I need another clue. I need to know how he's still alive. I need to know what's next."

"You mean you don't know? Sherlock Holmes doesn't know what's next? Oh God, that'd make a bloody good headline: Detective Genius Stumped at Last. They'd sell like crazy."

"Don't make jokes, John, especially not now."

"C'mon, Sherlock. Just admit it. You're distracted."

"If you're implying—"

"You know what, I am. I am implying. I'm gonna imply—no, actually, hang on: I'm gonna deduce. You ready?"

"Oh, God, no," Sherlock whined, holding his forehead in his hands.

"Good. Here we go. I think you've finally gotten around to loving someone, and having that someone in your own flat 24/7 is ruining your mental processes. You're in love, Sherlock, and it's about time you started admitting it."

"For God's sakes, John, don't romanticize the situation!"

"I'm not! I'm stating the facts! Look at me right now and tell me you don't love Irene Adler. Say it, Sherlock! Cause if you say it, I might actually believe you."

"This is stupid."

"Maybe it is, and maybe it's not. Even you can't deny the psychological benefits of the admission of feelings out loud! You wrote a dissertation on it for that stupid blog of yours."

"Maybe you ought to go and write one yourself, John. Might sharpen up that little head of yours."

"Alright—" John stopped abruptly and put Rosie into the playpen by the window. She started chewing on some toys inside and contentedly watched her father lecture his best friend.

"Say it now. Just say it. Like I said before, Sherlock, the chance will be gone before you know it. Before you know it."

"I don't know."

"Yes, you do."

"I don't, John. I really don't."

"You're telling me you don't know if you love her or not? Do you think she loves you?"

"I don't know."

"Bloody ridiculous. The pair of you," he walked away from Sherlock, muttering things the detective could not discern. He rolled his eyes at his friend.

But it was true: he didn't know; at least, he didn't think he knew, and he didn't think he wanted to know. Maybe he did, but...oh, what the hell? The smaller passions had always been foreign to him, and he didn't want to start entertaining them now. Sentiment had snagged him before, and he didn't want it catching him off guard again. He rubbed his forehead as he studied the papers.

John was sitting in his armchair, his leg fidgeting whilst he sat. Sherlock didn't want to offend his friend, but he also didn't want to encourage things that simply weren't good for him.

He decided to just keep working on the case, and things would turn out all right.

"I could use a bit of advice, John. Do you mind helping me?"

John opened his mouth to respond, but a voice hitherto unheard by either of them that morning interrupted.

"Go ahead, Johnny boy...I'm sure Sherlock wants to have a little fun."

John Watson did not rise from his chair, but his eyes averted upwards and his mouth was agape. Sherlock recognized the voice as it slid its familiarity down his back in an icy, frightening, and simultaneously thrilling remembrance.

Jim Moriarty was back to play.


	12. The Questionble Integrity of Irene Adler

Sherlock and John looked at one another for one brief moment before turning their eyes to the figure in the doorway. It spoke.

"How goes it, Sherlock? I sure hope you missed me."

"I really didn't."

"Well, that's not very nice, is it?" Moriarty asked, walking towards Sherlock as he sat examining the papers.

"Did you like it?"

"Like what?"

"The little present I left for you. Wellington was so scared, but when I told him he was Sherlock Holmes's housewarming gift, he seemed to loosen up. He didn't really want to die. It's always more fun when they don't. I think Culverton Smith would agree, eh? Did you have fun with him, too?"

Sherlock didn't reply. He kept examining the papers and averting the criminal's gaze.

Moriarty pulled up a chair beside Sherlock at the opposite end of the table and started shuffling through the papers himself.

"Was it too hard? I can make the next one a little easier, if you'd like."

"No, it was fine."

"Oompf, well, okay, hmmhmm...that's clever, very clever...alrighty then," Moriarty replied, his sarcastic humor completely shattering Sherlock's attempts to remain naïve to his presence.

"How did you do it?" the detective asked. The burning question proceeded from his lips and moved Moriarty's eyebrows higher up his brow. The criminal smiled evilly; his grin reminiscent of a joker's.

"Well, I probably should tell you seeing as you love explanations. I told myself...ohhhh...I told myself I wouldn't! I wanted to keep it my clever little secret, but now that you've asked..." he squinted and squirmed like a dramatic child trying to keep himself from grabbing the last cookie on the plate.

He dropped the act and declared: "But I think I will tell you. I'll tell you everything you want to know, Sherlock Holmes. Everything you want. Anything you want. As long as it doesn't upset our little ordinary friends."

Moriarty glanced at John, and Sherlock shot him a worried gaze.

John was trying to compose himself: there was a dead man in the same room as he. Cold, eerie sweat was breaking out on his forehead, and he cleared his throat silently a few times to keep the phlegm from building up there. His gaze was composed as it always was during the war. Well both wars, actually: the one in Afghanistan and the one in the streets of London.

"Especially about Miss Adler," Moriarty added.

Sherlock's train of thought collapsed as he heard Moriarty pronounce the name.

"What about Miss Adler?"

"Oh, Sherlock; this has everything to do with Miss Adler. Think she loves you, do you? That's sweet. So sweet. A bit weird, even for you, but it's sweet. I honestly never thought it'd happen."

"You flatter yourself."

"You think I'm the matchmaker then, do you? That's funny."

"Why?"

"Because I never like ruining something that isn't broken."

Sherlock was at a loss for words, and Moriarty laughed because of it. Giggling like a schoolgirl, he took his place in Sherlock's armchair, and John scooped up Rosie, edging closer toward Sherlock's position in the kitchen.

"You may remember a certain phone call a few years ago? One I answered in the pool where we first met. I apologize for any unnecessary nostalgia, Sherlock."

"Do get to the point," Sherlock snapped.

Moriarty's face was glimmering with a menacing sneer, and he continued.

"Hopefully you remember the deal I made with the other party?"

"I do," Sherlock replied, rising from his chair and venturing into the kitchen to pull out a few slices of Swiss cheese from a plate in the fridge. Chatting with Moriarty always made him hungry. John looked in shock and Moriarty smirked at Sherlock's casual decision.

"Make them rich, or make them into shoes...as you remember, things played out quite differently than I had have expected."

"You pulled out your boys before the Coventry Conundrum," Sherlock rebutted, nibbling on a bit of cheese as he spoke.

"Exactly. You don't think that was disappointing? Took so long, oh so long to plan..."

The weasel's voice trailed off, and he stared unblinkingly into the floor, his mouth hanging open slightly.

Sherlock was beginning to understand the logistics behind Moriarty's claimed malice for Irene. Nevertheless, as Irene had told him, this was all a ruse...wasn't it?

"She has struck a bargain," Sherlock reminded him. Surely Moriarty would not have thought him capable of knowing that much.

"She didn't play fair," Moriarty replied, his eyes narrowing with focus as he looked up at Sherlock, who was still standing and eating the cheese.

In this moment, the detective realized how much he might not really know about Irene and Moriarty. There could be so much she hadn't told him...or so much she had lied about. Was she really determined to play on his side of the game...or was it all a mirage? A mirage to sensuously tempt him to the edge of sanity and over the side to his death? He would not deny that he felt...things...at certain...intervals...when she was near him.

No...she could be with Mycroft, having worked on his side for the last few years, gathering information, tricking Moriarty as she worked undercover. He did not doubt her ability: the woman could fool anyone, including the world's only consulting criminal.

And yet...she could be with Moriarty, trying to make up for her former failure by ensnaring his nemesis: Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps he had offered her a deal: bring him Sherlock Holmes and make up for last time or...he would turn her into shoes. Pretending to love Sherlock, to aid him in outsmarting Moriarty, and to give him her confidence, she would prove herself victorious.

He contemplated the possibility that she could even be doing both: playing her cards right to see which position would prove more favorable in the end.

The doubts were nibbling away at his security, his surety, his faith. If Moriarty's intentions in coming to the flat were to make him doubt Irene's integrity, then he was winning, and Sherlock was losing. He was beginning to wonder if he didn't know, and as he had always known of himself, he didn't like not knowing. It was maddening, terrifying, and ridiculous.

Rosie began fussing, and it only added to his inner turmoil. Moriarty's face was contorting into an odd mixture of glee, malice, and enthusiasm. His mouth was spasming, trying to decide whether to smile or growl, and finally choosing the former. His yellow teeth burned through his slimy, glistening lips. John Watson shuddered and readjusted his daughter on his hip.

"How hard do you find it?"

Sherlock would not meet the villain's eye.

Moriarty continued.

"Really...how hard is it? Thinking about how much you don't really know her?"

Sherlock would not be bested by the man's quick wit. He would be quicker.

"How did you do it?" he asked, disregarding Moriarty's inquiry. He found the Irishman's deep brown, nearly black eyes with his own. They shone like the backs of wet beetles as the sun rises on a misty morning.

"You really want to know?" Moriarty asked, smirking childishly. The man stood to his feet, ran a hand down his hair to smooth it, and straightened his coat.

Sherlock took a step closer. It was all he needed to do to set the criminal to talking.

"First off, well done to you, Sherlock, for the performance on the roof," Moriarty began, sarcastically imitating a young child. He shook his head contemplatively as if marveling at Sherlock's talents. "That was...that was truly...truly something. I have to give it to you.... I just have to. You were splendid.... I mean it, I really do!"

"Oh, get to the bloody point!" John yelled, breathing hard. Sherlock had not even realized how much the doctor was trying to remain composed.

Moriarty clasped his hands together.

"Ever heard of speakers, Sherlock? Theatrical blood? Sound effects? It's like a show! Like a scene from a play...I would describe it. Great minds think alike, eh?"

Sherlock licked his lips. He swallowed. Irene had faked her death, and it felt real. He himself had faked his death, and the world mourned him for two years. Moriarty had "died"...why had he never considered the possibility that he wasn't really dead?

"You see? I fired the gun, but it had no bullets. I activated the sound with a device in my pocket, and the speakers went off. It echoed across the roof, I fell on my head and the pack of blood in my hair burst, spilling a large quantity of it all across the concrete floor. And as far as I remember..." (here he looked at Sherlock as though the genius were an idiot) "...you didn't check for a pulse. You would have found one if you had tried..." he sang out the word "tried" and let his voice taper down like the last note of a melody.

Sherlock was blinking back confusion. How could he have been so stupid as to not search for a pulse? He felt colour rising in his cheeks, but he swallowed and checked it instantly. Staring intently at Moriarty, Sherlock said nothing.

"Well, I see you have nothing to say," Moriarty abruptly chirped. "Did I do good, though? Was it good? Honestly, tell me. I really want to know. Please, Sherlock, anything. Tell me your honest...honest opinion," he begged, with mock sincerity.

"Don't play games with me."

"Oh, we're being serious now?"

"Why are you here?"

"Well, if I'm being honest, I had hoped you'd have figured that out by now. Did you get the present? I ordered it a few days ago, but sometimes he can be so lazy."

"He?"

"Yes, he. Oh...you haven't gotten that far yet, then, have you? Oops...spoiler!" Moriarty sang, his teeth shining and his eyes glinting like someone hiding a glorious surprise.

"Well, I guess I'm going to sound quite a bit like a broken record," Moriarty said, shrugging carelessly, "but I still owe you, Sherlock. I owe you...big time. We didn't do it properly last time. I think we ought to finish the deal, don't you? And do let me know how Miss Adler gets on..." his eyes gleamed as he said the next part, "I do get so worried about her when I'm not there to keep an eye on her."

"Is that it then?"

"Is what it?"

"You're going, just like that?"

"Well, if you wanted a clue, which I'm sure you're much too shy to ask about, then I can tell you there's one right in front of your nose," he replied, picking up a slice of Swiss cheese and swishing it around in his mouth as he chewed. Sherlock wrinkled his nose and his brow furrowed as he eyed the awkward motions of Moriarty's mouth.

"You can expect to see," Moriarty began, holding up a finger and taking a moment to swallow a mouthful of cheese, "me soon. I'll be around after a while to check up on you, but until then...I think...that's it."

"That's it?" John demanded, his face reddening with anger. Rosie started crying.

"Afraid so..." Moriarty droned, looking not at John, but at Rosie. The little girl gazed at the villain through her veil of tears, and to John's disgust, Moriarty smiled and waved at her before taking his leave through the front door.

He stood in the doorway for a brief moment before turning to Sherlock and said: "Oh, and Sherlock: Audere est Facere."

Then he descended the steps and the two men heard the downstairs door shut behind him.

Sherlock sat back down in the chair and stared at the floor. The last three words fascinated him most of all, and silently he mouthed them over and over again, wracking his brain with inquiries as to what they might mean.

"Audere est Facere...Audere est Facere..."

"What did he mean by that... 'Audere est...' something..." John asked, putting Rosie back down in the play pen.

"It's Latin, that much I know," Sherlock replied. "And it means, roughly translated, 'to dare is to do.' What he means by it...I don't know."

John was now helping himself to the Swiss cheese.

"John, he's back," Sherlock said, taking a deep breath.

"Yeah."

"Do you think Irene's lying?"

John, who had hitherto been staring into an unseen space, looked at Sherlock with troubled lines on his forehead. The doctor bit his lip. He shook his head, widened his eyes abruptly (as he usually did when pulling himself out of deep thought), and crossed his arms over his chest.

"I don't know...but it seems like she would have quite a few reasons to...if she is."

"I know."

And without a word, Sherlock went into his bedroom, shut the door, and lay on his own bed. The sheets smelled vaguely of Irene's perfume, and when the scent wafted into his nose, he shut his eyes.

Why should he care if she was lying? What if she was?

As he asked himself this, he found himself confronted with the remembrance of kissing her by the window only the day before. He remembered how soft her lips had been, the sensation of her hands around his neck, how strangely he had felt holding her in his arms...

Oh, God! Begone, sentiment!

But no matter how Sherlock tried, he could not rid himself of the feelings within. He was angry at the proposition that she was betraying him...twisting him around her thumb like some ordinary person with ordinary emotions hoping for some ordinary sexual encounter. No, he would have none of it. In this game they were playing, he could not fully trust her until he was sure that such integrity existed on her side.

He would confront her with his doubts, and he would not let himself succumb to sentimentality. She would return soon, and when she did, then would begin the first round in the great duel of Holmes and Adler.


	13. Discidium

All was still in the flat as she opened the door. It was eerie, and she was treading lightly as she entered. There was no sound. No movement. No sign of a human's presence.

She stood in the doorway for a moment, holding two paper bags in her arms. Allowing herself to be still, she cocked her head, straining to hear the faintest noise.

"Mr. Holmes?"

It was the first name she called out. She didn't know why. It was his place, obviously. Despite this, there was no answer.

"Doctor Watson?"

A bit of movement.

The doctor appeared at the top of the stairs, holding his daughter on his hip and looking almost with what looked to be fear and pity at Irene Adler. She had only been gone forty-five minutes at the most, so this new change over the doctor's visage alarmed her.

"I'm back," she said, jolting her arms to display the food she had returned with.

John said nothing.

He came down the stairs, holding Rosie in his arms and looking at his feet. She noticed how he was averting her gaze, and it angered her.

"I've got to be off," John huffed, trying to get past her in the doorway.

She blocked his path.

"What's happened?"

"Nothing."

"Don't lie to me, Doctor Watson."

John was inches away from Irene's face, and as they were about the same height, he looked into her stony blue eyes, trying to find some trace of integrity, assurance, or confidence. He found nothing. They were shielded as always. Emotionless. Dead.

He cleared his throat.

"I'm just gonna say something, alright?"

She only stared.

John was breathing through his mouth now.

"You had better know whose side you're on. And if you don't know, you had better start figuring it out."

Her heart fell as she realized what was going on. Her mind was racing with possibilities, and she wondered what could possibly have happened in the short time she had been absent. Nevertheless, her lips were a thin line of expressionless red lipstick and her eyes were nothing but hard, sapphire rocks.

"That's all I'm saying."

He pushed against her on his way out, and coughed as he got into the open air. He hoisted Rosie further up his hip. The little girl laughed at Irene as her father hauled her away. Irene couldn't bring herself to smile at the child. If only the infant knew who she was.

She shut the door on the London streets and advanced towards the staircase. Setting her foot on the first step, she almost winced as she felt and heard the wood croaking beneath her feet. Each step following it was similar: each one seeming to break beneath her feet...the beams sighing in agony.

The door was open. The sitting room was empty.

"Mr. Holmes?"

She called his name, but she honestly did not know what she would have said if he had come out. Therefore, she was thankful when he remained unseen.

Setting down the bags of chicken on the kitchen, she felt the phone in her pocket vibrate against her leg. Seeing a new message, she opened it only to find two words from a number that neither she nor her phone recognized: "Be careful."

No initials. The number was British, but she had no clue of who the sender might be. An angel or a devil? A help or a trap? But this was the least of her troubles now. For all she knew, it could have been a wrong number. She didn't reply. Looking up from the screen, she realized that the door to his bedroom was closed. Her mind began to wage a war.

Open the door.

God, no!

You aren't curious?

He'll come out eventually.

I shouldn't care.

But you do.

She physically closed her eyes and scrunched up her forehead in frustration. There was no one to see this display of honest emotion, so she decided it was warranted. In a fit of caution, she dialed a number on her mobile.

A dry, slinky, kingly voice answered on the other side.

"What is it, Miss Adler?"

"Mr. Holmes, something has gone wrong," she whispered, hoping to keep her voice low enough so that Sherlock wouldn't hear...if he were awake.

"Of course it has. Everything has gone wrong. You are back in Baker Street, aren't you?"

"Do you ever take the time to consider how the world doesn't revolve around Mycroft Holmes?"

"Not lately...what do you want, Miss Adler? And why are you whispering?"

"I've already told you. Something's happened."

"Well what the devil do you want me for? Something's always happening to you, and you always seem to know how to...handle it," came Mycroft's snarky reply.

"It's Sherlock."

"Isn't it always?"

"I can't explain it. He's shut himself in the bedroom, and Doctor Watson left in a rather...interesting mood. Something's happened to them. Something's pitted them against me. I'm not sure how."

"Does that really surprise you?"

"Yes, considering things were fine last night and this morning before I left."

A bit of silence from the other end.

"Last night? What the hell did you do last night?"

She grinned at her employer's frantic question.

"Nothing that hasn't crossed your mind before."

Inside she was laughing at the revolting thoughts that were crossing the mind of Mr. Mycroft Holmes. She hoped she had riled him up. He coughed before continuing. Perhaps it was an attempt to smother a repulsive gag.

"What are you suspecting of my little brother?"

"The question, Mr. Holmes, is who. And who else is there to suspect?"

"You think he's made...an appearance at Baker Street?"

"I do. And I need you to help me."

Mycroft laughed. Irene thought the noise was weird. Unnatural.

"Me? What do you need me for? There's enough you to handle everything."

"If Jim has been here, and if you want my cooperation for the rest of this assignment, then you had better send help. Better still, if you want me alive, Mr. Holmes, you would do well to send help. I don't think we've been able to begin to understand what he's capable of."

"Who? Moriarty or Sherlock?"

Irene held the phone in her now sweaty palm and replied, "Both."

Mycroft was silent. She hoped he had begun to start taking her seriously. This was her honest opinion on the matter. She had worked with Moriarty dozens of times, and when he had the intention of pitting someone against another, he did it with ease. And the recipient of the doubt was always a cataclysmic disaster. She knew Sherlock was clever, but so was Moriarty.

"Very well. Start closing in, and I'll have someone down there soon."

"Do send someone who isn't a complete idiot. I could never stand that Anthea woman."

She could almost hear Mycroft rolling his eyes on the other line. He cleared his throat, replied "of course," with acidic annoyance and hung up. The line went dead, and Irene pocketed the phone. 

She swallowed, cracked her little fingers, and advanced toward the bedroom door.

She opened it without knocking.

He was asleep...or seemingly asleep underneath the covers of the bed that she had slept in the night before. His back was to the door. Was he feigning sleep?

"Mr. Holmes?" she asked the stony figure in the bed.

"You're not fooling anyone. Turn around."

No movement. Not one muscle quaked.

No noise. Not one breath in the air.

It was a bit risky, even Irene would admit it, but hoping to remain as innocent as she possibly could, she climbed on to the empty space in the bed and lay down next to him. His back was to her, and he still ceased to move, but she put her hand on his shoulder, leaned over, and tenderly kissed his cheek.

He looked over his shoulder, his eyes fully open and looking into hers which were only a few inches away. From the state of his hair and his eyes, it was obvious to her that he had indeed been faking sleep.

"What are you doing?" he demanded. There was no cordiality in his voice, which was cold and questioning. It was beginning to feel like he was slipping back into the emotionless defender he had been when she had first met him.

So she did what she had done then. She smiled flirtatiously with her eyes.

"It's dangerous to get into a woman's bed when she's not in it. Especially my bed. You could be asking for something you don't want. I should be asking what you're doing, Mr. Holmes."

"It's my flat."

"Ours, don't you mean?"

"We're not married yet."

"Getting cold feet already, are we? Come now..." she cooed, making his ears burn with her warm breath. "The fun hasn't even started yet."

Unlike before, he found her presence so near to be...obnoxious.

"Where were you?" he asked abruptly, sitting up as she nearly lost her balance. She had been leaning on his arm, after all.

"Getting food. How hungry you must be, having forgotten where I went? Come along, darling, it's in the kitchen," she replied, standing to her feet and heading to the door. He didn't follow. He only stared at her from his place on the bed.

"Where's Doctor Watson?" she asked, ignoring his "odd" behavior.

"He left."

"Well anyone can see that. I mean where?"

"Oh, God knows. Why should I care?"

She swallowed. His voice was getting more and more agitated by the minute, each word was like a bubble in a pot of water beginning to heat up. Soon it would be a boil, and she'd be stewed.

She left the room, content that he would follow, which he did a few moments later. He sat down in his arm chair, one leg crossed over the other with his elbows on the sides of the chair. His fingertips collided just in front of his lips, and he stared unblinkingly into the floor.

Irene started pulling the food out of the bags, placing little cardboard boxes of chicken, chips, and the odd one of coleslaw onto the table. She never knew why she liked coleslaw. It was weird, American, and the texture was awkward. Nevertheless, she always ordered it and ate the vast majority of it.

"Hungry are we, Mr. Holmes?"

"No."

"Like I said before, you've got to eat..." she paused a moment before deciding to add, "...and I mean that in more ways than one."

At this remark, Sherlock rose from the chair and held his hands behind his back. Advancing toward the table, he asked a question which began a series of unnerving events that began to startle Irene.

"Miss Adler, do enlighten me."

"I shall do my best to try."

"Are you capable, for two minutes at the very least, of speaking to me without so much as thinking about flirting with me?"

She paused for a moment, cocked her head, then grinned.

"If I were to answer 'no,' dare I ask what you would think of me?"

He didn't answer. He kept coming closer toward where she stood by the table, his steps slow, strategic. She kept glancing at him from under lowered eyelashes, trying to keep that coquettish barrier between them.

He examined her face as he drew nearer, running his eyes over her features and incredibly calm, icy eyes. She pushed her tongue into her cheek as she watched him advance. Crossing her arms over her chest as he finally stood only a few feet in front of her, she asked, "Are you angry with me, Mr. Holmes?"

"That depends on your definition of the word. Do you think I would have a reason to be angry?"

She laughed, "Oh, you clever boy. What are you implying?"

"So I do have a reason to be angry?"

"That, in turn, would depend on what would make you angry," she replied, looking up into his chiseled, rigid features. A feline smile was worming its way across her face and even up to her eyes, which were now possessive of an impish spark.

"Do not trifle with me, Miss Adler," he snapped in a low, riled tone. "If you think that you can beguile me into a trap, I should have to ask you to reconsider."

"Dear God, Mr. Holmes! A trap? What have you been dreaming of?"

"And if you expect me to beg for mercy on my knees, then ohhh, God, you are in for quite the surprise."

"I don't understand," she replied, her eyebrows furrowing.

"Well try to. You honestly expect me to trust you while you hover on both fields? Moriarty's and mine?"

"I thought we had covered this yesterday."

"No...no we did not," he responded, his voice rising as he towered over her. She took a few steps backwards, but he kept coming.

"Mr. Holmes, you need to breathe. You need to stop and think about this."

"I already have."

"Listen to me—"

"Haven't I done enough of that already? You've lied to me, Miss Adler."

"I swear—"

"Shut up!"

Irene, although previously attempting to profess her loyalty, was fed up. At this command to shut her mouth, she was fire incarnate. Feeling a fuel raging inside her stomach, she took a step back and slapped Sherlock's sharp face with the back of her right hand.

"Ah!"

He reeled backwards in shock, holding his hand to his face.

The back of her hand was cut.

"Look at that..." she mused laughing softly so that only she could hear. She was staring at the blood trickling down her hand and watching as it absorbed into her sleeve.

"I've cut myself slapping your face."

Sherlock was stunned, holding his hand to his bruised cheek. He did not look at her. She took this opportunity to leave the kitchen. Putting on her shoes and coat, she hurried to leave the flat. She could not bear being here anymore, not after her integrity had been so assailed.

"Listen to me," she said, huffing furiously and rubbing her hand. "I don't know what has happened to you, but my God...you simply do not know what you're saying."

Sherlock turned from his injured position in the kitchen and breathed with such uneasiness and agitation. He turned to her with narrowed eyes.

"I don't know what I'm saying? And I suppose you do, then?"

She pulled on her coat and began buttoning it furiously.

"Your brother trusts me."

"My brother," Sherlock began, clearly and definitely irate now, "is an idiot! He always has been, and he always will be."

"So now I see what you think of me. An idiotic decision, is that right?"

"If I were to answer 'yes,' dare I ask what you'd think of me?" he mocked, recycling her words to him from earlier. As she recognized them, her insides were boiling violently, and all she wanted to do was to beat him within an inch of his life.

"When I'm dead on the street, I hope you'll think better of me and my loyalties, Mr. Holmes! God knows I could put them elsewhere!" she opened the door to leave.

"In case you haven't noticed, making an appeal to pity doesn't work on me," he parried, coming closer to the door.

"Poor soul, he thinks I was appealing to pity. What bad luck on his logic," she insulted, coming to meet him halfway. Oh God, how angry she was. Her fists were clenched at her sides, her teeth closed tight and her breath like the rattling, seething inhales of a dragon.

They stood in the room, eye to eye, positioned each one square in front of the other. Sherlock stared down into her little face, which up until now he had not seen filling with anger.

"Do you doubt me, Mr. Holmes?"

He paused for a moment before deciding to forsake her frightened façade and return to the offensive position of the parry. Seizing her wrist, he pulled her closer to him so that her face was directly below his, his chin on her eyebrow.

He whispered angrily, "Were you neglected and abused as a young child, forced to live your life without a mother from an early age and sent to a boarding school during your early years?"

"Stop it—"

"Were you enlightened by taking the dominant role in your sexual exploits during your adolescent years as an attempt to gain control and pleasure over anyone and everyone you could due to your powerless upbringing and lack of stability?"

"Shut up—" she tried wrenching her wrist from his grasp to no avail.

"Were you one of the most powerful women in Europe due to your sexual profession and expert blackmailing skills and sentenced to a life of service once more to a man you hated because you'd gone and made a deal with him that fell through?"

She lifted her head to meet his eye, her breath on his face was like steam from the kettle's spout. "I swear, I'll have you right here, right now, Mr. Holmes, begging for mercy at my feet, if you don't shut up and stop talking."

"I'd love to see you try."

She wasn't crying, but her eyes were incredibly moist and glossy as he studied them. She sucked in her breath before even attempting to speak.

"My father killed my mother," she yelled into his unflinching face. "And if you had any ounce of human decency, you'd not have mentioned such a delicate subject."

He watched her breathe heavily, angrily. He was taken aback at this. Not by much, but enough to stop his train of thought. He asked himself if he had gone too far, said too much. No, he couldn't trust her. He would keep going.

"With all due respect, you built a career on sadistically beating your wealthy, pleasure-seeking clients for your own sexual pleasure and blackmailing them to secure your fortune. Where is your human decency?"

"Ah, the tue quoque. Always a common card, isn't it? And yes, I am in service to a man I hate because I had made a deal and it had fallen through, and until I see his head on a spike, I shall have no rest."

Sherlock continued to hold her wrist, and he felt sweat gathering in his grasp. She was heavily breathing, refusing to look away from him, and twisting her arm in an attempt to free her wrist.

"Let me leave."

"Why?"

"I don't think I can know if I trust you."

"Where you going to go? Running back to Moriarty now, are we?"

"Why shouldn't I? I'm not welcome here."

"Then go."

"If you don't let me go, I'll make you. I swear I will. God knows you don't want that."

Neither of them said anything. Irene was silent. Sherlock was silent. The only noise heard in the entire room was the heavy breathing of each one.

The door below opened, and both their heads jerked toward the stairs.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft shouted from the bottom of the stairs. Running up with absolutely no one else behind him, he took the steps two at a time.

"Sherlock, what the devil is going on here?"

"Ask Miss Adler. As she has pointed out, you trust her."

"Let go of her, now."

Sherlock looked into Irene's face, which was incredibly flushed. He let go of her arm and she staggered backward toward Mycroft, who held out his arm to steady her. Sherlock didn't know why, but seeing his brother do this made him feel strange.

"She is for us, brother mine. I have asked you—nay, begged you—to understand this point. I trust Miss Adler with my life, and if you trust me, then you trust her."

"No..." Sherlock whispered to himself, scratching the back of his head and looking down. "No...we are all being taken for fools. All of us."

Irene took a step toward him and softly spoke, "Sherlock—"

But she was savagely interrupted in this use of his first name.

"No, no, no, NO! NO! Stay away from me!" he hollered, sending her back towards Mycroft. Her eyes were wide, and Mycroft was utterly bewildered.

"Pull yourself together, Sherlock! When will you finally see things the way they are meant to be? You have to understand my confidence in Miss Adler."

"You can't know that! We can never truly know for certain who she is for or against! I don't trust her, and I don't know if I ever will."

Mycroft sighed in defeat. He would not yell anymore at his little brother. The child's mind was made up, and there was no use in trying to persuade him. Not until he had cooled off at least. And he would have to remove Miss Adler from the premises.

Irene stared at Sherlock, her eyes brimming with tears. She wanted him to just know. She wanted him to understand. How could she make him see? How? She had never thought he would go this far. She had thought she could persuade him. That Mycroft could convince him.

But no.

He was sure of her villainy and that thought...oh, God, that thought. It crushed her inside. It was in this moment when she realized that Sherlock Holmes was not one of her many toys to be trifled with. She loved the man. She didn't want to lose him...especially not now.

Not only was there extreme sadness spilling over within her, but there was anger as well. Fierce, jealous anger thinking about what he had decided to believe about her. She had been there for him in Berlin. He had trusted her then. Moriarty's presence changed the entire dynamic of their relationship.

Her eyes were glossy.

Mycroft turned toward the door and motioned for her to follow.

"Come along, Miss Adler. It's for your own safety."

She didn't want to leave. She wouldn't leave. No, she would stay here until he understood who she really was and what he really meant to her. Sherlock's back was to both of them. Ignoring Mycroft, she walked toward the detective quietly. Coming around in front of him, his face was a hard block.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes," she said, one little tear falling from her left eye and slowly, silently streaming down her face. Without any anticipation on Sherlock's part, she reached up to wrap her hands behind his neck and kissed his cheek.

She heard Mycroft coughing from the other end of the room and honestly didn't care. Sherlock just stood there, his stiff features staring emotionlessly out the window and completely ignoring her existence.

Without saying anything, she rushed past, and hurried through the doorway and down the stairs. Sherlock turned around as she fled, and Mycroft looked at him with a look of such disapprobation that Sherlock was almost melting inside...with an emotion he didn't understand. His brother's mouth was the bent pipe-cleaner again, and it was an ugly one.

Turning to leave his brother alone in the flat, Mycroft shut the door and went out to the car where Irene Adler waited for him. She wasn't crying anymore, and that comforted the lanky, socially-awkward, umbrella-carrying Mycroft Holmes. He didn't want a sobbing woman to have to console on the way. But he should have known better. Irene Adler was not "that sobbing woman."

She met his gaze as he joined her on the pavement near the cab, which was still running. His face was incredibly apologetic, which was something Irene had never seen before in the years she had been in his service.

"I didn't really think it would happen, Mr. Holmes. You were right," she said.

"I know. Why else do you think I'd keep your hotel room open for you if I didn't know for sure how Sherlock would react? To me, this was inevitable."

She said nothing for a moment.

"Would you mind driving me? Back to my hotel, I mean."

"Not at all," Mycroft replied, opening the door and letting the woman inside. Looking up at the window before getting in next to Irene, Mycroft saw his brother gazing through the thin curtains. Their eyes met for a brief second before the older of the two got into the car and was driven away.

In the stillness that remained for the rest of the evening at 221b Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes played The Woman's song on his violin for three long hours.


	14. The Amateur's Deductions

Irene Adler and Mycroft Holmes said nothing as they drove away from Baker Street, leaving the consulting detective behind. She didn't look back, and if she had, she would most certainly have had a harder time trying to keep herself together.

Mycroft was staring at his shoes, his eyebrows flexing up and down his brow. It was like he was trying to work them out after they had been sitting down for too long.

He noticed Irene's speechlessness, and while he didn't want to take the role of a "comforter," he understood that this was not easy for her.

"At least you've gotten the recording. That's what matters now, Miss Adler."

"I know," Irene replied, putting her head against the back of her chair and staring out at London, which was a blur as they drove through.

"Doctor Watson is going through with it?" she asked, still looking out the window. She didn't feel like looking into Mycroft's deadening glance.

"Yes. I've spoken with him only five minutes ago. He's perfectly capable and is willing. He'll be around to see you tonight at around five o'clock."

"Fine," she said, drumming her fingers on her purse.

She was incredibly bitter. She wanted to strangle Sherlock Holmes, bang his head against a rock, shake him by the shoulders and tell him to wake up. Dear God! What had possessed the man? She would soon know. She both feared and anticipated this knowledge.

Arriving about ten minutes later at The Langham, Mycroft led Irene up to her room, seeing as only he had possession of the key. At the door, he returned it to her, wished her a good night, then walked down the hall toward the elevator, swinging his umbrella the whole way.

It was nice to be back inside her room: she now had her clothing, her soaps, her perfumes and infinite supply of red lipsticks. The room was all neatly done, the bed made, the air smelling of something sweet, and the windows drawn. Sighing as she looked out of it, she fancied she could see the rooftop of Baker street in the distance; it was only a thirty-minute walk and a ten-minute ride from The Langham.

Taking off the yellow pastel dress she was wearing felt almost sacrilegious, especially since it had been a gift from Sherlock. She rubbed her shoulders and felt the texture of the fabric. What a beautiful dress it was. He really did have such good taste in clothing.

Nevertheless, she took it off and settled into one of her thin, satin nightgowns. It was a childish thing, but she never liked pyjama sets with a button-up shirt and a pair of trousers. Ever since she had been a child, her mother had always gotten her nightdresses for bed.

Her mother.

This thought reminded her of Sherlock's deductions. How could he ever have known that she had grown up without a mother? Or that she had been abused?

She pushed the thoughts aside, determined to enjoy her night in. She had a light dinner brought up to her room and sat on the bed cross legged watching reruns of Poirot. It had been years since she'd seen this show. She had only been a little girl when she'd first watched it...it had been one her and her mother had always sat down to watch together.

"Come and sit down, darling," Victoria Adler calls to her daughter. The five-year-old girl clambers onto the sofa next to her mother and snuggles into the blankets. Smoothing over the child's sleek, brown hair, the mother kisses her daughter's head, cherishing the precious moments they have before the night begins.

"I'll be back in a few hours, Vicky," an old woman calls from the front door, putting on her coat. Victoria beams at her mother, and the mother returns the smile as she watches her daughter hold her baby girl...her granddaughter.

Grandmother leaves, Victoria turns on the Telly. She has grown quite fond of the Poirot miniseries and watches it every night at this time.

Her daughter laughs at Poirot's funny accent.

"Is he French, mummy?"

"No, he's Belgian, darling."

"Oh," the little girl replies, clicking her tongue against her little cheeks. The mother smiles and dotes on her child. Tonight, the mystery is about a young boy, Johnnie Waverly, and Irene almost cries when he is kidnapped. Victoria tells her daughter Poirot will save the day, and the girl trusts her mother. She stops crying. She learns to love detective stories.

And detectives.

The mother looks at the clock. 5:30. She should be sending the child off to bed now, but they have a few more minutes.

Keys are jangling in the lock. The woman's heart flies into her mouth; he was early. Scrambling to her feet, she gently pulls her daughter into her lap.

"Irene, go to bed, love," she whispers into her ear.

"Why, mummy?"

"Because, darling."

"But Poirot hasn't found the little boy yet!"

"Go upstairs now. Be a good girl and do as I ask."

Irene now also begins to hear the door and looks at her mother with the frightened eyes of a skittish lamb. The little girl wants to start crying again but doesn't. Picking up her teddy from the floor, she runs through the kitchen and up the stairs. As she reaches the top, the door opens. She runs down the hall toward her bedroom.

"Edward," she greets him. "How are you?"

It's the last thing she hears before reaching her bedroom. She knows they are saying more, because their voices are loud. They always are.

Once inside her room, she shuts the door and lays down on the scratchy carpet with her ear pressed to the floor. The fibres prickle her pink cheeks.

"She's a child, Edward! She's yours!"

"I never wanted a bloody child on our hands! It was your decision, not mine!"

"Don't curse. Oh, for the love of God, Edward, keep your voice down! She'll hear you!"

"I don't care if the pest can hear me!"

"I can't send her away. I can't. She's too young."

"You'd have her with you until she was well and grown, if you'd have your way!"

"Would that be so horrible?"

"Shut your mouth!"

"I won't leave her! I can't! No, Edward, please—stop!"

Irene stands up and goes to her closet. She puts on the nightdress Mummy bought her for Christmas and worms into her bed.

Some nights are like this. Daddy comes to visit, Mummy talks to him, and then they stop talking. Mummy cries, Daddy makes ugly noises. Irene doesn't know what they do, but she always knows that Mummy's arms look a little blue and her cheeks have tints of black on them the next day. They always disappear the day before Daddy returns. They always come back the day after his visits.

Then the noises stop. The crying stops. Irene is wearing a nightgown and snuggled into her bed, just listening. The door opens, and she hears her father's heavy breathing in the air. His shadow is in the light the open door lets in the room. She pretends to sleep.

Sometimes Daddy leaves. She can hear the belt in his hand jangle angrily against the door. She shuts her eyes. She prays that God would make Daddy close the door.

Sometimes He hears her.

Sometimes He seems busy.

Sometimes she is the one who has those funny blue marks on her arms and the black tints on her cheeks the next day. It's all so strange, because she knows she loves Daddy. But it never seems like Daddy loves her.

A knock on the door interrupted Irene's remembrance, and she took a deep breath to clear her thoughts. There was a bit of water on her left cheek, and she brushed it away absentmindedly and with a strange aggression.

The clock on the wall read 5:00. Grabbing a robe from the closet and wrapping it around herself, she ran to the door.

"Doctor Watson," she exclaimed, forcing a smile as she opened the door.

"Hi—just wanted to bring the uh...the book."

He handed her the copy of Macbeth she had been reading earlier. She took it from him gently and opened it to ensure the device was still concealed within the last page. There it was: safe and sound.

There was a book in 221 Baker Street written by William Shakespeare: one of his plays, titled Macbeth. It was one of Sherlock's favorite tragedies, as it was also Irene's. During the morning before she had left to fetch food, she had placed a recording device inside the said book. Knowing that her absence would draw Moriarty to the flat, she had no doubt that the recording would not go in vain. She now had access to Sherlock's entire conversation with Moriarty, and now here it was for her reviewal.

"Thank you," she said. She didn't want to close the door, but what was done was done, and she didn't want to stand around in awkward silence.

"I heard about what happened, earlier," John blurted. Irene blinked unfeelingly at him.

"I had no doubt of that. Where's Rosie?" Irene asked, diverting the subject.

"Oh, she's fine. At home tonight. Molly Hooper's watching her."

"Ah."

John was trying to find words. He didn't know what to say. Why had he said anything in the first place?

"It was you, wasn't it?" she asked, eyeing the doctor with some scrutiny.

He looked up in fright and cracked his knuckles.

"You...you were the one who sent me that text earlier, weren't you? The one that said 'Be careful.'"

John smiled then forced a chuckle.

"That was me—yeah."

She set the book down on a nearby table then returned to the door and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Look, I don't wanna pry or anything," John began with caution, "but um...well. I wouldn't take things too seriously, if I were you."

"What, with Sherlock Holmes half threatening me earlier? I honestly feared for my safety, Dr. Watson. And here you are telling me not to 'take things too seriously.' I'm beginning to doubt your judgement."

"I know how it sounds," John rebutted, holding out his hands to reason with her. "But I know Sherlock. If I may, I'd like to say that I know him far better than you do."

"Jealous, are we?"

"Let's not go there again."

"Fine."

John swallowed.

"But what I mean to say is that I know Sherlock, and I know him well enough to understand that when things begin to crack him emotionally, he goes into a...well, shock."

John looked at the woman's placid face trying to find a tiny fleck of emotion. It wasn't there yet, but he was determined to induce the appearance of at least one.

"Maybe you doubt me," he said, his lips shrugging along with his shoulders. "Maybe you think I don't know what I'm saying, but I know Sherlock.

"And you do something to him," he asserted, breathing heavily. She was reminded of their conversation in the Battersea Power Station a few years before. He had been seething with rage back then. His undying loyalty was still quite present, and it was admirable.

He went on when she continued to just stare at him.

"I won't even talk about last time, because we all know what happened then, but I'm asking you to remember. Just remember, alright?"

Her mouth parted just barely, and John was noticing a bit of emotion trying to bubble through the tight lid.

"I'm not going to say he loves you, because I don't know. I can't read his mind. I do know that he feels things. And he's afraid of what he feels. He's bloody afraid, the idiot. He's a stupid genius, he is. You've scared him, and he's gone off and scared himself. And now he's managed to scare you off, too."

John paused a moment. He had her attention. Emotionless as it was, he had her attention, and maybe he valued her undivided attention more than a show of emotion. Just like with Sherlock, things happened with this woman beneath the surface of an expressionless face.

"I'm just asking you not to hold too much against him. And don't tell him I told you this. He'd never forgive me."

Irene smiled bleakly.

"What do you expect me to do?" she asked, almost sarcastically. What did he expect her to do?

"You want me to answer that for you? No," John said, shaking his head with agitation. "I can't. Only you can," he snapped.

"Thanks for the book," she replied, not wanting to continue this incredibly one-sided conversation. She didn't like what it was doing to her insides. "Thank you, Doctor Watson."

John pursed his lips and breathed through his nose. The damned woman! He barely managed a quick "yeah, cheers," before stalking off down the hallway. She stepped out of her room and watched his brisk little soldier's stride disappear down the corridor.

Shutting the door, she returned to her bed and opened Macbeth. The recording was still there and undamaged, and Irene was hungrily preparing to listen to it. She pulled out her laptop from one of her suitcases and connected an HDMI cord from the device to her laptop's portal.

After five minutes of waiting for the data to download, Irene finally started playing the recording after finding the appropriate time stamp.

It was eerie hearing the conversation that had transpired in her absence. Moriarty's words were indeed convincing. He had certainly painted an ugly picture of her, and she could understand Sherlock's uncertainty.

More than this, however, she began to make deductions in order to better understand the Wellington case, and there was plenty to be gathered from Moriarty's words.

The killer was a man. She caught that much: "I ordered it a few days ago, but sometimes he can be so lazy." She could hear Sherlock also noting the fact that Moriarty mentioned a "he" and she took note. The killer was a he.

When Moriarty drawled that there was a clue "right in front of your nose," Irene heard the break in his words as he loudly chewed and swallowed some food. Instantly she remembered the plate of half-eaten Swiss cheese that had been on the table in the kitchen. Assumedly, Moriarty had eaten a slice of this same cheese when he had said this...could his consumption of the cheese have been more than what it seemed? But then what could the cheese have to do with the Wellington case?

Then it hit her. Her brain practically exploded, and she paused the tape so she wouldn't miss anymore. Thinking over the possibility of this hypothesis, she took more notes and analyzed her deductions. This had to be right. There could be no coincidences. As Mycroft had often told her, "The Universe is rarely so lazy."

Listening to the rest of the tape, she felt a huge relief as her hypothesis was reaffirmed by the three mysterious Latin words spoken by Moriarty: Audere est Facere. She knew what it meant, and she knew what he meant by it. And after following up with a bit of research, she confirmed her theory.

She was pleased with her deductions. She had spent much too much time around Sherlock... "He's rubbing off on me," she thought to herself. Hopefully this new information would convince him of her genuine integrity. How she missed him...

Five minutes later she was on the phone with Mycroft Holmes.

"Mr. Holmes? It's me. I know how I can secure Sherlock's trust. Yes. You see, I know who's killed Arthur Wellington."


	15. A Text at 12:30

Irene was letting a puckish smirk play around on her face as she stood before the inhumanly oversized desk of government official Mycroft Holmes...her employer.

He had been busy for the last two days, without any time to properly speak to her (which bruised her pride and forced her to nurse animosity), but now she was finally inside his cold, mortuary-like office and divulging the information she had been itching to tell. 

Mycroft's face voiced his inner skepticism.

"Are you certain of this, Miss Adler?" he asked, uneasily eyeing one of his most trusted agents. His left eyebrow was raised to the point of its nearly touching his hairline, and he drummed his wiry fingers on the table.

"I believe so, Mr. Holmes. He is our man; I have no doubts."

"I'm impressed you unraveled it so quickly."

"I'm flattered."

"Before we begin uprooting this man's identity, do explain how you arrived at your conclusions."

"Gladly," she replied, taking a seat in front of his desk and crossing her white legs.

She felt a bit like Sherlock...giving an explanation to the British Government.

Her deductions were simple.

Moriarty had unveiled the entire case through his little bite of Swiss cheese. At the mention of a clue being in front of their noses and the ingestion of cheese, she had to take notice. Moriarty left clues in the stupidest of places.

She thought of Godfrey Norton. What if he wasn't German? What if he was Swiss? He had a German accent because he was from Switzerland, not Germany as she had so previously imagined. And then she remembered the paper on which the note had been written, and the words she had spoken to Sherlock in an attempt to impress him: "The paper is Swiss. As I thought, Mr. Holmes; see the watermark?"

The Swiss paper, the Swiss cheese, the man with the German accent. It had to be Godfrey Norton, it simply had to be. But the name...the name Norton. That wasn't German by any means. She was still confused as to why he had a British name with a German accent. That bit wasn't making any sense.

She continued to listen to the tape until the conversation ended. Moriarty then spoke the last three words at the end of it that seemed to nudge her further into deductions: "Audere est Facere." She knew what it meant: "to dare is to do." She had taken Latin as an adolescent and still remembered quite a bit of it.

The phrase meant not only this, however. As she listened to Sherlock and John ask what it could possibly mean, she couldn't help but grin to herself. There was another meaning to this Latin phrase that neither of them seemed to recognize. Until 2006, it had been the official motto of the Tottenham Hotspur football club. She should know; her grandfather had been mad about Tottenham and always screamed "Audere est Facere" whenever they won a match. She used to sit on his lap and scream with him during the matches. He would coddle her on his knee and give her biscuits against her mother's strictest warnings. For goodness sake, this case was unearthing so many memories she thought she had completely lost.

Resuming her deductions, she began to ask herself if the Tottenham Spurs could have something to do with the Wellington case? Opening a browser tab on her laptop, she searched the most recent team roster and found photos of the current members.

And there he was. Number 66: his handsome visage grinning into the camera. Its perfection made her sick. It made sense; she had always noticed that he had an athletic build, and if she had been more attentive, football player was an obvious conclusion.

Beneath his photo read Godfrey Norton, which surprised her. She had imagined him having a German name, or at least a fake one. Under each player's name and photo was their hometown, and his read Berlin, Germany.

The entirety of the person "Godfrey Norton" was a pseudonym, and she could tell. It was a fake identity, and perhaps even Moriarty had been hoodwinked into calling this man "Godfrey Norton."

No, that wasn't right. Moriarty was smarter than that. Anyone could tell that "Godfrey Norton" is not a German or Swiss name, and with such an accent as this man had, the name had to be false. Or he had cooked up an elaborate, compelling story to tell everyone he had known.

She was still quite unsure where his identity was concerned.

"So, I don't know his real name. His real identity. Nevertheless, I do know that this is the same man who I had a run in with in Berlin and the same one who was at Baker street a few days ago. Do you know him, Mr. Holmes?"

"No, I'm afraid I don't, but your deductions seem plausible enough. I'll have Anthea take a look into his records, if they are accessible. Well done, Miss Adler. If this is indeed our man, I do believe Sherlock will understand you as I do. I must again apologize on his behalf; he's such a child, sometimes."

Irene turned to leave.

"Oh, and before you go—" he added, and Irene stopped in her tracks, once more turning on her heel to face her employer.

"I'm afraid the evidence you have brought in today is simply not enough to convict. There were no eyewitnesses at the crime scene, and while Moriarty may reward you for your sleuthing skills, the justice system will most likely not."

"What are you saying, Mr. Holmes?"

"We need a confession."

"A confession?" Irene asked, stunned.

"Yes, Miss Adler. A confession. You need to get a confession from this...Godfrey Norton...character."

"But how?"

"I leave that to you...and my little brother."

Irene saw what Mycroft was doing. He had a rope and was determined to tie her and Sherlock together with it. She smirked mischievously. Mycroft's mouth twitched.

"You mean for us to cooperate again? For him to see me as I truly am?"

"I mean for my plan to proceed and for my brother to...finish his end of the bargain with you. It is truly the only way for us to be rid of Moriarty once and for all," Mycroft replied, sincere in every respect. Irene relished his expression. It wasn't one she saw every day. He took a step toward her and said, "Talk to my brother, Miss Adler. Try reasoning with him, and if he won't listen, then leave him to me."

Irene nodded.

"Oh, you can be sure I will, Mr. Holmes. You can be sure I will."

With that, she paraded out of his office with her pride and confidence regained. She had solved the case before Sherlock Holmes and had quite simply pleased his elder brother...oh, what would he think of that? She couldn't wait until he knew.

Stepping out into the sun again, a crisp wind chiseled at her face. She wrapped her coat closer around her. Autumn was making its way into London. Hailing a cab, she ordered it to the hotel and devised a plan to approach the great detective and convince him of her loyalty.

And in the process, they would catch a criminal.

...

Opening the door of her terrace suite at The Langham, Irene gasped to find Jim Moriarty sitting on one of the sofas with his hands behind his head. He was letting his head loll around on his shoulders, examining every inch of the suite.

"I like this one. How much did he pay to put you up here?"

"About £1200 a night, if I'm not mistaken. How are things, Jim? You aren't pleased with my progress, I see?"

"Far from it. I'm delighted," he replied, smoothing the back of his hair. "Little old Sherlock's a bit testy right now, isn't he? He always was so afraid of all those little ordinary emotions he has. You've played with them nicely," he said. He paused, his lower lip hanging limp. Seeming to remember himself, he said, "I see you've figured out how Godfrey plays into all this. Good girl."

She grinned.

"He means nothing to you, then? You said he owed you a favor."

"He does. His big brother failed miserably trying to get a job done for me. He's just making it up for him. Returning the favor.... I honestly don't care what happens to him. He'll be around again tonight, I think."

"What's tonight?"

"Godfrey Norton—"

"You don't really believe that that's his real name, do you, Jim? What kind of story has he been telling people to make them believe that Godfrey Norton is a German man? Or a Swiss one, for that matter?"

"You clever girl," Moriarty grinned, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. His hands were rolled up in balls and upholding his chin.

"No, it's not Godfrey Norton. It's Friedrich Schreiber," he replied, wincing as though the name hurt his ears. The name immediately rang in Irene's head...it was familiar. Somehow, something about it reminded her of a past occurrence.

She put it in the back of her mind as Moriarty continued. "He's from this little old place called Baden—not too far from Zürich—where no one does anything but drink ale and wear lederhosen. I don't actually know that, but that's really what it looked like," he said wrinkling his nose at the appalling idea and breathing in through clenched, bared teeth. "He and his brother got bored with the tedious business they conducted at home (which is always good for my business), I found them, they helped me out quite a bit. Especially during the time that I was...shall we say...dead?

"He's got an elaborately crafted identity: 'Godfrey Norton.' He's been telling everyone that he has a British father with the name Norton who married his German mother, and that since he was born in Berlin and both his parents spoke German, they wanted him and his brother to have German as their first language. It's an elaborate story, and one that most people buy. Especially the Tottenham Spurs.

"He's a brilliant football player. He really is. You ought to come to one of the matches down at Hotspur Stadium. It's brilliant. Anyway, I pulled a few strings, got him on the team, and it's honestly one of the best covers I've ever given anyone before. I'm a bit surprised at myself for having gone so far!" he giggled. Irene smiled at him mysteriously. She was beginning to wonder why Jim had gone so far with concealing this man's true identity.

"But, I heard about the little run in you had with Friedrich in Berlin, and it gave me a clever little idea. You don't mind, I hope?"

"Not at all," she replied, her words calm and smooth.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," he said, putting his hands together and making a couple of regulatory bows. She rolled her eyes.

"I made him think he'd be watching your every move and if you misbehaved, he'd get to play with you again. You probably picked that up from our last visit."

She nodded, the hair on the back of her neck prickling upwards.

He rolled his eyes and made a pfft sound with his lips. "As if anyone could tell anything about you from the way you do things. He's been completely useless (as would have anyone else), and I don't care what you do to him. Oh, I do want you to do something for me, though. Just one little thing. And please, please, please, you just have to make it work," he pleaded. Irene snickered at his childish demeanor.

"Your wish is my command," she replied, smirking mischievously. She was also internally concerned as to what Jim's wish was.

"Catch him with Sherlock. Just make sure you catch him with Sherlock. Let tonight be a practice run, if you'd like, but just make sure you don't leave poor little old Sherlock out of it, eh?"

"Why?"

"I like to watch you both. It's...interesting."

She shifted uncomfortably in her chair, managing to keep her emotions in their place. His remark was interesting. It made her think. And suddenly, she remembered where she had heard Friedrich Schreiber's name before.

"That's why you've done everything, isn't it? The Wellington case, Schreiber's identity...that Berlin incident with Friedrich's brother Klaus...it was all to watch me and Sherlock. You wanted to see how he would get on with me," she said.

He smiled and nodded like a child caught in a magnificent scheme.

"I knew you'd catch on. You always do. That little Berlin date was a personal request of mine. I was still disappointed with Klaus Schreiber for his idiocy in trusting you...nevertheless, I was entertained watching you both take down one of my networks. It was one I could spare, honestly. The Berlin fellows were always a sorry lot anyway. The Serbian one was a lot harder to loose..." he seemed to forget what he was talking about. Then he suddenly remembered himself and said, "Back in Berlin I hadn't even told you I was alive."

"Indeed, I would have remembered if I had been aware," she replied.

"I know..." he drifted off. "I'm just glad you've finally solved the riddle, Miss Adler."

"It doesn't take much, Jim," she said, as though it were nothing. She went on placidly against every triumphant emotion raging within her. "You say Schreiber will be here tonight?"

"Yes, I told him he's coming to do a routine check on you. Play along, will you?"

"I shall do my best. I don't need permission, Jim. You ought to know that by now."

He laughed amusedly as he rose to leave.

"Leaving so soon?" she asked. "I was about to put the kettle on."

"I've got business, I'm afraid," he said, deepening his voice authoritatively and marching to the door. She laughed.

"I'll be seeing you soon, then."

"Tally-oh!" he trumpeted as he sailed through the door. She closed it slowly behind him, and once the door was safely shut, she nearly jumped for joy. This was too easy! Jim was practically begging for her to use the plan she had already formulated. All she needed now was to get Sherlock to the hotel before Schreiber came later that night. She looked at the clock. 12:30. She still had time to send a text.

Mr. Holmes, we need to talk. – IA


	16. Bleeding Emotions

Life in 221b Baker Street had changed dramatically in the two days that Irene had been absent. After her departure, Sherlock had played the melancholic, dreary tune that he had written for her; and he played it over and over for nearly three hours to Mrs. Hudson's utter dismay.

After the said three hours had passed, he sat in his armchair, selectively picking at cold Nando's chicken and chips, leaving the coleslaw to rot on the table. The sight of the food turned his stomach.

He sat in his chair, doing nothing, feeling nothing, wanting absolutely nothing. Mrs. Hudson came in and spoke to him, and he did not speak to her. Mycroft called him a million times, and he did not pick up his phone. John texted him over and over, and he never even read the messages.

The Woman was silent, and so was he.

He slept in the perfume scented sheets, laid his head on the fragrant pillows, and spent the remainder of the day in his mind palace...spending time in multiple rooms trying to sort himself out from within.

John arrived with Rosie two days later to find a plate of uneaten breakfast (Mrs. Hudson had brought up some sausage, beans, and toast), a cup of cold, coagulating tea, and a sad song in the air. Sherlock was staring out the window, playing his violin. John hoped he would turn around when he and Rosie came through the door.

Nothing of the sort happened.

"Sherlock," John called, bouncing a fussing baby Rosie on his hip.

Nothing happened. The song kept playing.

Over.

And over.

And over.

"Sherlock!"

Again, no response.

Mrs. Hudson ran up the stairs. John looked at her, his face the living picture of panic and concern. She shook her head miserably at him.

"I can't bring him out of it, John. There's no use. He was like this yesterday. He doesn't eat, he plays this song for three hours, and then he shuts himself in his bedroom and doesn't come out until it's time to play again in the morning."

"Well, no matter what the hell's going on, I'm calling his brother."

"Oh, John, are you sure?"

Sherlock finally spoke without breaking the haunting melody: "Fine, call my brother. I'd like to see what he'll do with me."

John sputtered angrily, setting Rosie in Mrs. Hudson's arms and calling Mycroft.

Who was this? John Watson. What's wrong with Sherlock? Just remember the last time.

At this, Mycroft barely mumbled that he'd "be there straight away" and pocketed his phone. He even told the driver he'd pay him an extra ten pounds if he could make it to 221b Baker Street in under half an hour.

And when the Ice Man arrived, he was in some frame of mind that was much less than a good humor. Marching straight for his brother and completely ignoring Doctor Watson's attempts at communication, Mycroft wrenched the violin from Sherlock's shoulder and ripped the bow from his right hand.

"Sherlock! Grow up!" Mycroft screamed, throwing the instrument onto the long sofa against the wall. Sherlock looked utterly violated, his mouth was agape, and he was furious at having his soul's expressor stripped from his own two hands.

"Mycroft, what the hell do you think you're doing?" the younger demanded, shouting into the face of his elder brother, which he was now only a small length away from.

"Knocking some sense into you! Sit in the damn chair, Sherlock! There's something I need to tell you," Mycroft said, pointing to the client's chair.

"Something you couldn't have told me over the phone, brother dear?"

"I called you every three hours for the last day and a half!"

Sherlock was angrily stumped. That much was true. He struggled for the words, then blurted: "You—you could have emailed me!"

John rolled his eyes. "Here we go..." he breathed.

"Everyone out immediately," Mycroft demanded, shooing John and Mrs. Hudson (who was still holding Rosie) toward the door. John protested.

"No, hang on—" he said, gawking in the door way.

"This is a family matter, Doctor Watson—"

"Let him in, Mycroft! Damn it, you ought to know by now. John is family," Sherlock argued, flopping himself down into the client chair like a pouty child. John coughed and let himself past Mycroft.

"Do have a seat, Doctor Watson," Mycroft said in a forced croon, making himself smile and looking like he was in pain the whole time.

"Yeah, I will, thanks," John replied, sitting in his armchair. Mycroft came to sit in Sherlock's chair opposite him. Sherlock fidgeted. His Asperger's was suffering horribly as he waited for his brother to get to the point.

"You don't understand why I trust Miss Adler. I suppose I ought to have told you sooner, but...well..." Mycroft stopped. He studied his brother before continuing.

"I said that I learned of Miss Adler's continued existence six months later when she was living in Kiev. I didn't say how I knew that."

Sherlock sighed. "Do continue, Mycroft."

"Miss Adler was still The Woman after you rescued her, Sherlock. Roaming Europe, she was able to secure business for herself by returning to solicit her...services...to her previous clients. Surviving off of profits she had reserved in case things went to hell (which they did), she began to reestablish her reputation. Eventually, she found herself in the middle of an affair with a prominent Ukrainian government official. I'm afraid I cannot name names."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and mouthed "of course you can't." Mycroft sighed angrily.

"The man was engaged to be married," he continued, talking as composedly as he could through an annoyed huff, "to a member of our own British Parliament, and the scandalous affair Miss Adler was having with the woman's fiancé would have caused a great uproar...both at home and abroad. And, of course, she had incriminating photographs of herself and the Ukrainian...in explicit situations.

"But instead of baiting Parliament as she had done before, Miss Adler remained quiet. She didn't want to make money off of blackmailing this time, it would seem. Nevertheless, she was found out, and the Ukrainians had arranged her execution unbeknownst to her.

"As this was a matter of British importance—as well as Ukrainian importance—I caught wind of a certain mysterious "Woman" who had weaseled her way into the affair. I also heard of the execution the Ukrainians had planned for her. There was only one woman, and I knew that Irene Adler was alive. When I learned that she was about to die, I did not want that happening."

"Why?" Sherlock instantly asked, leaning forward.

Mycroft looked condescendingly at his little brother. "I knew how she was alive. There was only one possible explanation. And I couldn't bring myself to do that to you, brother mine."

Sherlock shifted backward in his chair, his neck and back straight as an arrow.

"Go on," Sherlock muttered.

"I stopped the execution. I tried negotiating with Ukraine, but it was of no use. They wanted the woman dead and the photographs burned. I, therefore, took it upon myself to prevent her imminent death."

"That makes two of us," Sherlock snidely remarked. Mycroft ignored him.

"I commissioned a team of...shall we say...assassins to Kiev, and they delivered Miss Adler from the doom that she had no idea existed. Then she was brought here. Now that she was in my custody, I negotiated with the Ukrainian government. And I presented Miss Adler with an ultimatum.

"Ukraine wanted the photographs destroyed, there was no question about that. I made sure that they were, and ensured that Miss Adler would never again set foot on Ukrainian soil. I told her that her head had a price on it in Ukraine, and unless her valuable skills in international relations and espionage were used to the advantage of the British nation, I would hand her over to the Ukrainians to be killed. And she agreed. We have cooperated on numerous assignments over the years, and she has never once failed to deliver. I trust her with my life, and she trusts me with hers. She owes it to both of us, doesn't she, Sherlock?"

The detective inhaled uncomfortably. Mycroft's involvement with Irene over the last few years unsettled him. Where had he been? Why had he not been allowed to know?

"Why did you never tell me?" Sherlock asked, practically grilling his brother with the way he spoke through gritted teeth and bore holes through his head with his fierce glare.

"How could I? England would have mourned your absence."

Sherlock scoffed in reply and laughed, but he was completely unamused. "You think I'd have left England to join Miss Adler? Please, Mycroft..."

"Yes, Sherlock. I do," Mycroft replied, his scrutinous, unflinching gaze ending the detective's fit of dismissive laughter. Sherlock looked at John, almost for help.

"I'm not gonna say he's right," John said, "but I mean, Sherlock...just look at the last few days. You're...well, you're a bloody mess, you are."

Sherlock, appalled at John's response, turned angrily to his brother, demanding: "I suppose this new scheme to marry me off to Miss Adler is simply the most recent attempt of yours to employ her 'valuable skills in international relations and espionage?' Do you really believe Moriarty will fall for such a thing?"

"I do. I believe I have reasons to view it as genuine, as will he."

"To view what as genuine?" Sherlock snapped, his pinky picking at his upper lip.

"The match. You're in love, Sherlock, and it's so obvious...so painfully obvious."

Mycroft's voice had gone quite low. Sherlock was angry, gripping the sides of his chair and his feet cemented into the carpet. John's eyes were enormous, and he nibbled his lips.

"You do know he's most likely been observing your behavior the last few days? He'll have seen the violin, the uneaten food, the locking of yourself into the bedroom. It's exactly what he wants. This is exactly what he wants."

"You don't know that," Sherlock replied.

"Yes, I do!" Mycroft shouted, frightening Mrs. Hudson, who was apparently standing by the door and eavesdropping. She squealed and hurried with Rosie down the stairs. He rolled his eyes and returned to lecturing his brother.

"Do you understand me now, brother mine? Why I trust Miss Adler? After I have explained the terms of our cooperation?"

Sherlock did not respond for a moment. He just knew that he needed to get his brother out of his range of sight. He felt tied...

"I do...and I must thank you for your fascinating story, Mycroft," Sherlock sarcastically responded, abruptly jumping out of his chair and making for the door to see his brother out. He continued, "But I'm afraid I am still not convinced. After all, the woman is as far in with Moriarty as she is with you, so what makes you any different? The diet obsession?".

Mycroft scowled. "What do I have to say to you? To make you understand?"

Sherlock mockingly imitated a thoughtful expression, then satirically concluded, "Nothing, I should think. Until further evidence surfaces, I'm afraid I remain the skeptic."

"Then I will say no more," the brother quietly observed, picking up his umbrella and strutting to the exit. Sherlock opened the door for him.

"Bye bye," he mocked.

"Things are not what they seem, brother mine. Try to think. Try to understand. You know. Just try to trust. I'm asking you to trust. I'm asking you to be vulnerable. It seems England requires it of you."

Sherlock pointed out the door and jerked his head. Get out, Mycroft.

Sighing in defeat, Mycroft stalked out, stomping down the stairs like a wounded elephant. Sherlock thought he could hear curses under the refined breath.

John was still in his armchair.

"Did you hear anything that he just said?" John demanded.

"Yes. I have two fully functioning ears, John. I should hope I heard everything he said," Sherlock replied, perky as ever.

"No, I mean did you?" John repeated, standing to his feet. "Do you ever hear anything when it comes to that woman? She's running for her life, Sherlock! Her bloody life!"

"Yes, from two men simultaneously. You don't think I heard that?"

"No, I don't! I think you're afraid."

"Afraid?"

"Yes! Afraid of everything you feel! All those emotions bubbling up inside that icy heart of yours!"

"I don't have an icy heart, and don't you dare! to even think about so much as speaking to me regarding emotions, John!"

"Why not? It's about time someone did. You act like you don't care a straw for her, you pretend not to care about a thing your brother just said, and then you go and play that song on your violin for three hours straight! Three hours! Stop ignoring this, Sherlock, just stop it. Stop it now."

"I need to be alone. Just leave me, please, John. Please. I need to be alone."

"Why? So you can drown yourself in your mind palace?"

"YES, JOHN!" Sherlock screamed, his rage reaching its zenith like the sun at high noon. John was breathing heavily, clenching his soldier fists and resisting the temptation to punch the detective in the face. The subtext was ever so strong.

But instead of punching him, he spoke only one word:

"Norbury."

It was all John said. Sherlock's face went from ferocity to remorse within nanoseconds, and his heart fell through the floor. He breathed through his mouth. "John...John, I'm—"

Refusing to look Sherlock in the eye, John stormed out and slammed the door so furiously that it rattled the wall.

Sherlock Holmes was once again alone in 221b with nothing but his thoughts, a plate of cold food, and a violin begging to be played. He slumped down into his armchair, letting his head fall into his hands. He massaged his brow as if he could erase the present from his brain.

He was in no mood to eat. No mood to make music, no matter how fitting. No mood to rush after John. No mood to do anything. He felt like screaming. Yelling. Shooting the wa—

Yes.

A spark of hope ignited within him.

There was something to do.

Picking up a little pistol from his bedroom, he locked the door (so that Mrs. Hudson or John could not interrupt his regulatory, stress-relieving ritual), and flopped into his armchair with his gun cocked and pointing between the yellow smiley's eyes.

Bang! Bang bang bang!

He didn't stop after the first four shots. He kept shooting. His eyes never once leaving the smiley's, his frustration directed entirely at the spray-painted features, his fingers aggressively jerking back the trigger.

Anger and frustration were fueling his every action, and his teeth were clenched tight behind his lips. His eyes were blazing with some kind of confusing passion, and he didn't understand himself.

Grunting furiously and quite nearly yelling like mad, he threw the gun onto the floor. It slid across the flat and disappeared under the long sofa.

He had to be quiet a moment; collect himself. He had to tidy his mind palace. It had been dirtied with...everything.

Closing his eyes, he found himself in his favourite place. Walking the lonely halls, he rejoiced in the quiet serenity of the peaceful recesses of his intellect. Abruptly, he found himself in the graveyard near his childhood home, surrounded by the funny little graves with the fake dates on them: one of his most treasured, comforting memories.

Finding his favorite headstone, he sat in the grass and leaned back against the grave of Nemo Holmes. The little blades of grass twitted about his legs in the wind, and his hair ruffled in the country breeze. He could smell the sea from here, and the salty air invigorated his lungs. Redbeard was running through the graves, and at the sight of his favorite Holmes child, he came and licked Sherlock's face.

"Good boy, clever boy," Sherlock cooed to the dog, burying his face in its soft, odd-smelling, dark fur. Redbeard didn't stir, but let Sherlock hold him for what seemed to be the most therapeutic thirty seconds of the entire day.

Suddenly, and without warning, he was in a completely different place and sitting on a sofa in a sumptuously furnished sitting room. He groaned. He knew what was next; this was one of the rooms in his mind palace that he visited most often. It was one of his favorites...and yet he always groaned whenever he came here.

"What are you so afraid of, Mr. Holmes?" came a voice from one of the chairs opposite him. He looked into the face of Irene Adler. It was all there: the red lipstick, the aqua liner, the complicated updo...and the absence of clothing. That was why he looked into the creature's face. She was curled up in the little settee by the window, the chair cradling her bare, petite form.

"Get out of my head," he whispered. It was almost a snarl, and she acted offended.

"I'd be glad to, but I can't, you know. This is your mind palace, remember? I'm only here because you want me to be. I must have done something awful to have warranted this much attention from you. Have I troubled you too much, Mr. Holmes?"

"Oh for God's sakes," he moaned. But she was right; he wanted to be here...with her. But he didn't want to.

But he did?

"Why don't you trust me, Mr. Holmes?" she asked, rising from her curled position to advance toward him. She was now miraculously clothed: wearing the yellow pastel dress he had bought her. He eyed her suspiciously.

"I don't want you to be too frightened," she said, sitting next to him. He pretended not to notice her. She took his hand in her lap and started tracing little lines on it.

"What...are you...doing?" he asked, his head barely tipping to examine the hand she was so delicately stroking.

"This is where you come whenever you don't know what to do next," she replied, setting his hand back into his lap. She laid back to recline against the sofa and set her feet in his lap. He stared at them as though they were lumps of rotten cheese curds...despite their being perfectly smoothed and prettied.

"What do you want me to fix for you?" she asked, laying her hands behind her head. Sherlock gently removed her feet from his lap and stood up to walk around the room, leaving her to lounge on the sofa. He went to the mantle where he had first divulged the location of her safe. He saw her studying his features in the mirror.

"What...are you doing to me?" he breathed, turning around to look at Irene with an almost trembling gaze. She laughed eerily and grinned like a faerie. As though she had accomplished some great feat, she crossed her legs and sighed.

"I'm sure there's an answer to that in here somewhere," she replied, making gestures at the room they were standing in...and referring at large to the mind palace she was trapped in.

He came back to stand over her. He put his hand on the sofa's backing, towering over her. She sported a girlish simper.

"Have I played too hard, this time?" she asked, gazing innocently up into his furious eyes. He hated himself whenever she did that; because he loved that coy expression with a boyish admiration.

"Don't trifle with me," he snapped, feeling quite dominant in the way he loomed over her. For once, he felt she was under his control. She seemed to notice.

"I would hardly call this a healthy marriage relationship," she said, drawing out each syllable alluringly. "We should've been married already, you know. We always were, in a way. Up here, at least. I certainly think so. Don't you?"

He said nothing.

"It's what your brother wants. But...it's what you want too...isn't it, Mr. Holmes?"

He knelt down beside her. She turned to face him, acting surprised.

"What do you want from me, Miss Adler?" he asked, neither stern nor benevolent.

"You keep asking questions, darling. When will you finally start making decisions about me?" she paused, mocking a reverie. "Or is that why you've ostracized me now? Because you simply cannot make me out? I'm too much of a puzzle for the great Sherlock Holmes..." her voice faded out, and she ran her fingers through his fluffy black hair.

"There's nothing wrong with an unsolved puzzle, Mr. Holmes. People want to know you're human. That you're imperfect...that you feel things...and have emotions..."

His head warmed as he felt her perfectly manicured fingers gently running across his scalp. It was like salve on his bleeding emotions. She drew him closer with the hand holding the back of his head.

Her parted lips were very nearly there. He gently cupped the left side of her face with his hand, she airily breathed the tiniest of laughs, and he shut his eyes as he leaned down to kiss her.

The touch of her smooth cheek vanished from his palm. He pressed his lips to nothing but cold air. He opened his eyes.

She was gone.

*Ahh.*

The mind palace was gone.

He cried out, absolutely flustered as he staggered to his feet. He was on the floor. Oh God, what was happening to him? He had been lying on the floor of 221b. He wondered how long he had been there.

He rushed to his phone, which was lying face down on the mantle. He had a new message. He swallowed.

It was a message from her.

Mr. Holmes, we need to talk. – IA


	17. Towel and Tub

You know where to find me. – SH

There. It was short. Curt. To the point. Maybe she would leave him alone.

Sherlock was holding the phone in his sweaty hand; the heart inside his chest was pumping a million miles a second. His hand was not shaking; he hadn't eaten in a few hours, and his blood sugar was going down. That was all.

Yes, and you know where to find me. – IA

The hair on the back of his neck prickled, but not in a way that alarmed or terrified him; in a way that intrigued him.

Feeling saucy, he replied:

Give me a reason I should. – SH

A few moments of waiting.

I have important information for you.

About the Wellington case. I promise it

isn't boring by any means. – IA

Oh, this was interesting. What had she gotten up to in the last few days? It seemed as though he needed her now. He wasn't at a dead end in the case, he was just...having difficulty knowing where to go next or which lead to follow (of which there were absolutely none). Still defensive, he replied:

Try me. – SH

I don't want to spoil it. – IA

He didn't respond to this. After a few moments, she sent another:

It surprised your big brother. I will say that. – IA

Mycroft again...why was it always Mycroft in this situation? He bit the inside of his cheek aggressively. Indeed, he was shocked at how hard he did so. Studying his phone, he waited a moment in order to try for a crafty response.

And yet Mycroft...Mycroft...

Always there...

No.

He would see her.

What would you propose? – SH

Reception Room at the Langham. 4:30. – IA

The Langham? Dear God, how much was his brother paying to put the woman up in that hotel? He had never even set foot inside the building, which looked like it cost nearly as much as Hampton Court Palace was to build for all he knew.

Should I be worried? – SH

I'll let you decide. – IA

He chuckled quietly. There it was. A bit of sarcasm. He didn't realize how much he had missed it until it was absent.

Oh shut up, he thought to himself. It had only been two bloody days. He was fine. Yes, he was fine. The perfectly rational, intentional, and reasonable Sherlock Holmes. And he would remind her.

Any doubt and I'm gone. – SH

Fair enough. – IA

He set the phone down on his desk, fighting the urge to pick it up and text her back. No, that would be enough, and she would have to be content with his previous message. Besides, he hadn't given her any reason to believe that she was now viewed as trustworthy in his eyes. He had to remember that.

He decided to call John. Besides, he of all people would probably be glad he was meeting her later this evening. John had stalked out of Baker Street at 10 am...it was now 12:30. Sherlock had been in his mind palace...for two hours?

He was appalled at himself.

Nevertheless, he called John. And he knew, as he always did, that the man would answer. There was no doubt in his mind, just as there never had been.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, is it you?"

"Yes, John. It's me."

"What's going on? Are you okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Well, I think I'm fine, at least. I'm meeting Miss Adler tonight at the Langham; she has information on the Wellington case."

"Oh..." John's voice trailed off. Silence followed.

"John?"

"Yeah, I'm here. Still here..."

There was silence from both ends, and Sherlock felt incredibly uncomfortable. Suddenly, they both started talking at the same time to end the silence, which made things even more awkward. Sherlock cleared his throat. John coughed.

"Uh...what time tonight?" John asked with apprehension. Sherlock could tell he was probably scratching the back of his head.

"Around 4, I think."

"So, this afternoon, then?"

"...yes..."

John was quiet for a moment. He cleared his throat...again.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine."

"...Cause you don't sound fine."

"John...please..."

"Sherlock you called me. What do you need?"

"I don't know."

Then why was he on the phone with him? Sherlock was instantly regretting ever having called. He didn't even know how to communicate what he was feeling. John sniffed.

"So, you called me, and you don't even know why?"

A brief moment of silence.

"Yes. I'm sorry, John. I'm just...I don't understand..."

"...what you're feeling?"

Sherlock swallowed, his lip looking like a limp noodle on his face.

"I'm coming over," John said after a brief moment of silence. He hung up before Sherlock had time to say anything else. Sherlock was many things, but an open converser he was not. John knew that this situation required prying...questioning.

He considered the situation: Sherlock had been in a state of emotional disrepair the last two days. It was like Irene had died all over again. John was sick to death of that bloody stupid song he kept playing over and over.

He didn't even bother mentioning Irene's name; Mrs. Hudson had told him that she had asked where the lovely young woman had gone to, and that Sherlock nearly brought the house to its knees when he slammed the door to his bedroom, leaving Mrs. Hudson with a shaking cup of tea in the sitting room.

Before John had left two hours earlier, she had asked him: "I don't know what we're going to do with him, John. Do you?"

John hadn't answered her, and now as he walked toward 221b on his way back from Tesco, pushing his baby daughter and a bag of groceries along in a buggy, he wondered if his meeting with Sherlock would give him the chance to coax his friend back into living life again...

...Something he had not been doing for the last two days.

He couldn't tell if Sherlock felt remorse for having driven Irene from him, sadness that she was once again absent from his life, or anger as to having believed himself to be betrayed by someone he was forced to trust. Or perhaps a mixture of all three.

When he arrived at the flat at around 1:00, John didn't even have to knock on the door. Mrs. Hudson flung it open as soon as he neared the front step.

"Oh, John, you've got to help him!"

"What's happened, Mrs. Hudson?"

"I don't know! I just don't know. He's gone and worked himself up, and I don't know how to bring him down again! You've got to help him, John!"

"Is that him?" John asked, pointing his finger in the air. At that moment, a loud yell could be heard from the room above, and Mrs. Hudson nodded timidly.

"I'm afraid he's quite lost it up there," Mrs. Hudson whimpered, holding the door open for John to push the buggy in.

"I'll take Rosie into the kitchen. It's not right for a child to be up there. Not now, at least," she said, taking Rosie into her arms and situating the child on her hip.

John took the groceries into his left arm and creaked his way up the stairs toward 221b. He paused by the first few steps to just listen to what Sherlock was saying. He seemed to be having a conversation. John strained to hear the other voice, but there was none.

"How was I to know? I'm afraid the evidence swayed heavily against you, and I had no choice but to believe what I did." Sherlock was seething, breathing heavily. "My error?" he continued. "There was no error in this but your own!"

John winced. The voice was getting louder now, escalating.

A brief pause. The imaginary participant in this heated dialogue was supposedly responding. John jumped a little when Sherlock started ranting again.

"Oh no...no," he was laughing from within his chest. John pursed his lips in thought. Sherlock continued out of the laugh: "No, do not bring this down upon my head; God knows this was your doing."

The inaudible voice was speaking again.

"I imagine John Watson thinks love is a mystery to me, but the chemistry is incredibly simple and very destructive."

John blinked twice to make sure this was not a dream.

"When we first met, you told me that disguise was always a self-portrait. How true of you: the combination to your safe...your measurements. But this, this is far more intimate. This is your heart, and you should never let it rule your head."

John was making a confused expression at the air, his brow wrinkling and his nostrils flaring. What the hell?

"You could have chosen any random number and walked out of here today with everything you've worked for, but you just couldn't resist it, could you? I've always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage. Thank you for the final proof."

John was trying not to laugh. Sherlock Holmes was having an imaginary conversation with the woman who ruled his heart: Irene Adler. Or was she beginning to rule his head? There was once again a moment of silence between Sherlock and imaginary Irene.

"I know...and this is just losing," Sherlock was saying; his voice full of passionate victory. John wondered if he had said these words before.

A long silence now; the imaginary participant had taken the floor.

"Here you are, brother," Sherlock continued. "I hope the contents make up for any inconvenience I may have caused you tonight. If you're feeling kind, lock her up; otherwise, let her go. I doubt she'll survive long without her protection."

Another brief moment for an imaginary voice to protest.

"Yes," was Sherlock's equally brief reply.

There was a bit of a longer pause here, John straining to hear if Sherlock was whispering. But there was nothing. John walked further up the stairs, being careful not to step on the one overly creaky beam. He could see Sherlock through the door now, holding Irene Adler's old phone in his hand. He was facing the window.

In a tranquil voice, he spoke: "Sorry about dinner."

"Sherlock?"

"John!" Sherlock whirled around, facing his friend with a frantic air. Colour was coming into his cheeks, and it looked like someone had set off an electric spark in his hair. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

"You asked me to come."

"Yes! Yes, I did," Sherlock said, holding up his index finger as if reminding himself of something. He was breathing heavily; John had apparently scared him to death.

He swallowed then held the same index finger to his lips. "Ummm..."

"Who were you talking to, then?" John asked, waltzing into the room.

"No one."

"Well, obviously. But who were you pretending to talk to?"

"I wasn't pretending to talk to anyone. Why would I do that?"

"Then why could Mrs. Hudson and I hear you from the street?"

Sherlock paused.

"From the street?"

"Yes, from the street, Sherlock! The bloody street!"

John closed the door to the flat. He didn't want Mrs. Hudson eavesdropping on them as she so often did. Leading Sherlock over to his arm chair, John sat opposite him so they could talk.

"I don't know what I've done, John. I felt so right when I did it. And now...if I'm wrong, I just wonder if I've done something incredibly brash."

"Well, regardless of whether you're right or wrong," John said, widening his eyes for a brief second and taking off his shoes, "you did do something incredibly brash."

"I know. But if I'm wrong, then I had no reason to do it."

"You had no reason either way, Sherlock. What you did was...insane."

"Yes, it was, wasn't it?"

"I should think so...but, I'm not saying I trust her any more than you do," John admitted.

"You think I'm at least right to be skeptical?"

"I do," John replied. "Just not skeptical enough to...well...you know."

"Right."

"Yeah..."

"Do you think I'm wrong to go tonight?"

John blinked.

"Does it matter what I think?"

"Yes, it does," Sherlock replied lowering his head to look steadily at John.

"I don't think you're wrong, then. There, I said it. I don't think you're wrong. I think you ought to be careful, and I think you ought to exercise...restraint...in more areas than one, but I don't think you're wrong to go. In fact...I think you should go."

"May I ask why?"

"Because you have a woman to apologize to, whether she's on your side or not."

"I will admit my actions were a bit...abrupt."

John coughed, then the cough broke into a laugh.

"Sherlock, you bloody scared the woman out of the house! I'd say you were a little more than abrupt, mate. You were..."

"Yes, insane; you already said that, John."

"Well then, I'm glad I've gotten my point across," John replied, hoisting himself out of the armchair and going to Sherlock's bedroom.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, his poor puzzled face following John's movements, and his mouth ajar.

"Getting you something proper to wear. You're going to the Langham, after all; you'll need to be properly dressed. Unless you want to go in your Buckingham Palace getup," John shouted as he rummaged around in Sherlock's closet.

"There's a fully functioning bedsheet in there, I believe," Sherlock hollered back, laughing under his breath. John's weird, high-pitched giggle echoed through the little flat.

"Here, put this on," John said, coming out of Sherlock's room and throwing a black button up and a pair of his best trousers into the bathroom. When John disappeared inside, Sherlock revolted.

"What are you doing now?" he demanded, rising from his chair and slowly making his way over.

Then he heard the bathwater start running.

"Oh for God's sakes, John! You are not making me take a bath!" Sherlock yelled, storming into the bathroom and standing akimbo in the doorway.

"Sherlock, you're going to the Langham to meet a woman. You smell filthy and—"

"I do not!"

"You haven't showered in two days. Two bloody days! You need to get clean, and you need to get clean now, Sherlock!"

"Oh for God's sakes, John—"

"Don't talk back to me, Sherlock. Get your smart arse in the tub now, or I will make you."

"I'd love to see you try."

John started chuckling at Sherlock. It didn't take much, and John knew it. He pointed to the tub and tapped his little foot on the floor impatiently.

"Get in the bloody tub."

"Fine," Sherlock stormed passed John, huffing and puffing as he began unbuttoning his shirt. John threw a towel at him. Sherlock's sigh was more like a grunt.

"This doesn't mean I have to like it!" the detective roared like a protesting child.

"Never said you had to!" John airily replied, shutting the door on his friend and dusting off his hands. His job here was done.

Before he made it back to his armchair, John jumped as Sherlock burst out of the bathroom, stark naked with only a towel around his waist to cover himself.

"Get back in there!" John ordered, pointing to the bathroom.

"John, wait a moment!" he shouted, addressing the doctor quite loudly for the close vicinity in which they were occupied.

"What?" John asked, trying not to laugh at the frazzled genius in the bath towel. It reminded him of the story of Archimedes jumping out of the bathtub and running through the streets of Syracuse naked.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, sincerely. Honestly. His face was all childish repentance.

"Yeah. Yeah, I know," John replied, grinning. "Now get your arse in the tub! You've got yourself a date."

"Yes...yes I have, haven't I?"

"Go!" John laughed, shoving him towards the door and laughing the entire time as he watched his best friend, Sherlock Holmes, waddle off into the bathroom, holding up his bath towel with one hand.


	18. Clever Girl

Sherlock stood for a moment in front of The Langham, possibly sizing it up. It was almost like he was equating the hotel's height to the amount of apprehension in his stomach: both were immaculate and monstrous. 

He was beginning to be thankful for the way in which John had fixed him up. He was wearing his purple button-up, a suit over it, and his long cloak. Not to mention that his hair smelled significantly better than it had a day ago (he hadn't realized that that was what the horrid smell was).

Entering the reception room, he looked around for Irene's petite figure sitting delicately in a chair or standing outlined near a window as it so often was. She had such a way of setting herself up; he supposed her years in business had given her the ability to "market" herself.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" a man's voice asked from behind. Sherlock turned swiftly on his heel, alarming the questioner whose eyes widened in surprise.

"Yes?"

"You are Mr. Sherlock Holmes, aren't you?" the young man asked, his bright eyes clashing miserably with his wild, curly hair. His presence was annoying.

"Yes, of course I am. Can I help you?"

"The woman you're looking for is up in room three hundred fifteen, sir."

"Oh..." Sherlock said, not taking his eyes from the man's face. "Thank you..."

"Of course, sir," the lad replied, handing him a small envelope. Sherlock took it with a nod of his head, dismissing the young man appropriately. Opening the stiff, crisp paper, he read:

Room 315. 4:30. Reception room too public.

\- IA

Sherlock was somewhat discombobulated by this note. It was not anything akin to her previous messages, which almost always seemed to combine coquetry, subtle innuendo, and perhaps a bit of humor into the mix of something utterly serious and inappropriate to laugh over.

The paper was white, the letters were printed in black, and her initials were etched onto the page without any sort of character. It felt...dry. Utterly unlike her.

What should he expect?

A telephone rang in room three hundred fifteen, and Irene Adler answered.

"Hullo?"

"Mr. Holmes is on his way, ma'am," came the voice of the youth she had commissioned earlier. She breathed uneasily.

"Thank you," she replied, after a moment of silence in which she had absorbed what had been communicated.

Placing the phone back down on the receiver, she breathed as composedly as she could, reminding herself of who she was and why she was capable. She decided to play a little on the piano whilst she waited for him to arrive. It wouldn't be long now. Three minutes at most.

Finding room three hundred fifteen, Sherlock paused for a moment outside the door. There was music coming from within, and he tried to make out the melody. It was "Auld Lang Syne," and the instrument in question was a piano. It reminded him of when he had played it on his violin...on a New Years' Eve a few years ago. He came closer to the door and leaned his forehead against it. He started humming the words under his breath.

Should Old Acquaintance be forgot,

and never thought upon;

The flames of Love extinguished,

and fully past and gone:

Is thy sweet Heart now grown so cold,

that loving Breast of thine;

That thou canst never once reflect

On Auld Lang Syne?

She began playing the next verse, but before she reached the end of it, he rang the bell. The music stopped. He heard shuffling within; she was probably stowing the piano bench.

The door opened after a few brief moments, and there was Irene Adler, dressed in absolutely nothing but black. Her hair was pulled back into one of those complicated updos, and her eyes were lined with black mascara unlike the shade of aqua they usually were. Her lips were deliberately painted a deep, dark red, giving her an altogether Gothic, almost bleak and Victorian, appearance.

"Afternoon, Mr. Holmes," she said, holding the door open for him to come in. Her eyes were dead, her lips were dead, and her figure's movements were robotic representations of their usual seductive swagger. Her lips were a straight line, and the lack of a smile set Sherlock in an uneasy frame of mind. The only colorful thing about her was the red polish of her manicured nails.

"Afternoon, Miss Adler," he replied, his voice equally cold.

"Please, come in. I've just put on the kettle. Make yourself comfortable."

She left him standing in the doorway and retreated into the kitchen to fix the tea. His eyebrows almost met in the middle as he found himself drowning in confusion.

Nevertheless, as she waltzed off, Sherlock ponderously wandered in awkward silence through the enormous suite and into the sitting room. There was a writing desk near the hearth, and long sofas were scattered proportionately around the space. Trying to catch a glance through the half open bedroom door, Sherlock could spy a bed of voluminous proportions.

There was the piano he had heard only a moment ago. It was in another corner of the room: a grand piano with three pedals. By it was a door which opened out onto a terrace.

It was half open, and a delicate breeze was coming through. A couple of car horns sounded below, and Sherlock could hear someone shouting: trying to sell the daily paper, it would seem. Strolling out onto the terrace, he could see for miles over the city. There was St. James Park, although it was quite a way off. Looking directly below, he found that the pedestrians looked like ants.

He returned to the sitting room, settled himself into one of the incredibly plush sofas, and waited for Irene's arrival.

She came eventually, carrying a tray adorned with two cups and a pot; Sherlock could smell the citrusy scent of Earl Grey. Setting it on the glass coffee table, she poured a cup for him. Would he take milk? Yes, just a bit. Sugar? Yes, but not much.

"There you are," she said, handing it to him.

"Thank you..." he said, his voice incredibly soft, low, and reluctantly puzzled. This was...weird. Irene Adler was acting like some kind of Abbess. He didn't realize how much he missed her annoying flirtatious manner...only when it was gone.

Shut up, he told himself.

"How much does my brother pay to put you up here?" he asked.

"Must I really answer that question?"

"You don't have to. I'm only curious."

"Curiosity killed the cat, Mr. Holmes."

"So I am told."

She took a sip of her tea, making sure to hold her pinky high. Sherlock was staring into his cup. There was something odd about the way she was carrying herself. He felt incredibly unnerved. He shifted in his chair.

"You play the piano?"

"A little. Whenever I can. I never took my music studies seriously, I'm afraid."

"What you were playing just now was quite good."

She ignored him, looking out the open door and putting the tea to her lips again. Sherlock lowered his gaze into his cup and did the same, so as to avoid any strange connection of the eyes.

"You have news?" Sherlock abruptly asked after a few moments of conspicuously quiet tea drinking.

"Yes," she replied, putting down her cup and cradling the saucer in her lap. She cleared her throat. "You see, I know who's killed Arthur Wellington."

Sherlock almost choked on his sip of Earl Grey.

"So soon?"

"I'm afraid so."

She couldn't resist a little smile, and her lips jerked into a minute smirk before she pulled her muscles back down to serenity. He saw it before it vanished. What was she doing?

"I shall have to ask you to tell me who it is," he ordered, resuming his cold air.

"Only if you agree to my proposal," she replied, her words formed around icy syllables. She looked at him unblinkingly, her large blue eyes blankly examining him. Her lips were equally employed. Without succumbing to the temptation to look away, Sherlock breathed deep.

"What exactly are you asking of me, Miss Adler?" he asked, putting his cup to his lips and sipping slowly. He crossed his left leg over his right one and watched her. He wondered if she was having a difficult time trying not to grin.

Whether she was or not, she didn't.

"I'm not asking you to love me, Mr. Holmes," she said, almost in a sigh. "I'm only asking if you will let me help you. Because I can."

Sherlock said nothing.

She began slowly tapping her heeled foot on the floor, and he began watching it obsessively. He did not want to say anything. He was afraid of vulnerability. He was also afraid of making the wrong judgement. If she was integrous, as she was presently suggesting by offering her allegiance, he would be destroying an excellent connection.

After a few moments of thoughtful silence, Irene spoke.

"Unless, of course, you want a dangerous criminal to continue roaming the streets of London for the sake of your pride. Whether or not that's best, I don't know, but it is your decision, Mr. Holmes."

Oh God, there is so much sarcasm in that little voice, Sherlock mused, managing the most infinitesimal of grins. A chuckle escaped his lips. He had missed this about her, and he found himself slowly, hesitantly, admitting it.

She, however, was still staring robotically into his face, every now and again letting a quizzical look fly across her features. She held her cup in its saucer and continued to tap her foot on the floor. Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Fine. What do you propose?" he asked.

Setting her cup on the table beside the sofa, Irene leaned forward, crossed her legs, and began to divulge the secrets of the infamous plan that she had already formulated.

...

Irene rolled over in bed, her eyes heavy with sleep. She had drifted in and out of dreaming for the last hour, but rest had not fully swept over her. At length, she resorted to being in that middle place; not knowing whether she was awake, asleep, or simply dreaming about going to sleep.

The meeting with Sherlock had gone well that afternoon. He had agreed to her proposed plan, considered it a clever idea, and calmly left her room without objection or...apology. Much to her dismay. While the absence of penance bothered her, she was at least grateful for his cooperation. Besides, this was Sherlock: she decided it was best not to push her luck.

She felt air glide into the room; the door opened. It pulled her from that middle place instantly. Her back was to the door, and she didn't turn around. She only feigned sleeping. Her skin was tingling with excitement. Someone was coming near the bed.

Feeling a shoulder on her arm and the overwhelming presence of someone's face stooping barely above her head, she cast aside the act, saying with delicious desire, "Couldn't stay away, could you, Mr. Holmes?"

She turned toward him with her small hands reaching out to pull him in, draw out a long sweet kiss, and encircle the detective at long last inside her lair.

But that wasn't what happened at all.

Recoiling in horror, she found not the desired affections of Sherlock Holmes, but the repulsive features of Godfrey Norton, or Friedrich Schreiber. Springing backwards and hurling her feet into him, he staggered backward, but only barely. She had not forgotten his strength.

"I didn't expect you tonight," she said, pulling the sheets over her shoulders and attempting to maintain a calm, toying tone of voice.

"We said I would be seeing more of you, did we not?" he asked, rubbing his chest with his palm. "You nearly kissed me just now when you thought that I was Sherlock Holmes. How is he? Have you two been getting along? Has he gone out tonight? I thought I would find you both here; surprised to see you are clothed. That I will say."

She laughed with sultry arrogance.

"Where's Jim?" she asked, disregarding his first inquiry.

"He could not make it tonight, I am afraid. Disappointed?"

"Not nearly. It's good to see you...Friedrich."

"You are clever," he laughed. Leaving the bedside, he walked towards the window, back facing her. "Even a child could see that my true name is not 'Norton.' Norton is not a German name, nor is it my real one."

"Friedrich Schreiber would be terribly sad mourning the death of his big brother the puppet, wouldn't he?" she asked, reclining against the pillows and crossing her arms behind her head.

At the mention of his brother, the German turned with fire brimming from under the dark lashes of his eyes. He turned toward her, and she sat up as his hands came down on the bed, each one on either side of her.

"Always a pressure point, isn't there?" she teased, mocking him with her expression.

He grabbed her arm.

"Temper, temper," she cooed, trying to wrench her arm from his hand. Keeping everything below surface level, she found her nerves screaming. She was going somewhere; remembering things she did not want to. His face over her, her arms secured, her breathing becoming more and more rapid: she would not let herself remember.

"I know what you've done, you wicked boy," she hissed, staring into his stony eyes. He still had her arm in his grip, and as she spoke, he twisted his hold on it. She allowed herself the smallest of grimaces.

"What is that?" he asked.

"You killed Arthur Wellington for me," she replied, smiling as though she had been honored by his little ritual.

"Moriarty told me it was a surprise. 'For who?' I had asked. 'For a woman,' was his response. I was puzzled. Greatly, greatly puzzled. 'A woman?' What sort of woman would want a dead body as a gift? I only knew one such a woman, and she had died in Berlin...I had killed her." Irene was trying not to act surprised or frightened. She narrowed her eyes at him, trying her best at charm. He let go of her arm and began to walk around the room again.

"So I asked him, 'What woman? What kind of woman?' Moriarty did not respond for about ten seconds. I eyed him each moment that passed, and the man just stood there: smiling at me."

Pausing at the window, he looked back at her. Then he finished: "Then Moriarty opened his mouth and said 'the woman.' ...And then I understood. It was for you."

They stared at one another: the woman and the devil; the cat and the mouse.

"You killed him for me, did you?"

"For you. A puzzle for you. Anything for you."

Irene was trying not to vomit. His diabolic voice was beginning to create chaos inside her mind, and she honestly began to doubt how safe she was with this man in her room.

Coming back toward the bed, he knelt down so that he was eyelevel with her. Their faces were inches apart, and the hairs on the back of Irene's neck were rigid.

In a low whisper, he said, "Now I've come to ask about the detective."

"He's not here."

"I know," he said. His tone was almost slimy, like an eel's, and Irene wanted to scream when he took her shoulders in his hands.

"That's why I'm here."

She leaned a little closer to him, teasing a kiss. His breath was horrid.

He closed his eyes and grinned expectantly, but she put a finger to his face and pushed him back a little. Gently prying his fingers from her shoulders (which he allowed), she settled back onto the pillows and eyed him flirtatiously. Keeping this façade together was one of the hardest things she had ever done.

But it was over now, wasn't it?

To Schreiber's unbelief and to his fright, Irene began to let the smile of the victor creep over her lips. Oh, why was it so hard! she wondered, chiding herself for her childishness. She could not resist the incredible, delicious urge to grin. So she did. And when she started laughing, Schreiber's eyes narrowed in confusion.

"Did you get all that, Mr. Holmes?" Irene asked, addressing the air.

"Every word, it would seem," spoke the baritone voice of Sherlock Holmes. He emerged from behind a dresser drawer at the far side of her bedroom and pressed "stop" on a recording device in his hand. He laughed.

Schreiber was motionless, still hovering over Irene like a character in a paused film. He looked at Irene, then at Sherlock, his face contorting with humiliation and vexation. He began breathing hard.

"This has been really very well-played, Miss Adler," Sherlock declared, grinning.

"Indeed," she mused. "Well-played, Mr. Holmes."

"Scheiße!" Schreiber screamed, making a lunge for Irene's throat.

"No!" Sherlock ran from his corner of the room, and Irene gasped for air as Schreiber's hands closed around her neck. She scratched at his fingers, but he would not let go.

Sherlock was upon him in an instant, seizing his forearms and wrenching his hands from Irene's throat. She coughed and gulped oxygen as his hands stopped squeezing her airways shut.

Schreiber was not a weakling, however. The two men tumbled off the bed, rolling over one another on the floor. Irene shot out of the blankets and ran for the bathroom; one of her suitcases had an old pair of handcuffs in them. She hadn't used them in quite a while. Finding them under her denizens of clothing, she hesitated as the cold steel burned her fingers when she touched them.

Rushing into the kitchen, she went to the knife drawer, where she and Sherlock had hidden a shotgun earlier in the day. She drew it from its hiding place and examined it as she held it aloft in her right hand, eyeing it for a moment with sadistic delight.

Returning to the room, she found that the men were still going at one another on the floor, and Sherlock's nose was bleeding. Schreiber's right eye was swollen.

She cocked the gun and held it in front of her as she advanced forward. Sherlock saw her out of the corner of his eye. When he smiled at her, a bit of blood came out of his mouth. Schreiber was oblivious, and he and Sherlock continued to brawl.

Sherlock gasped desperately at her in the madness, "DO YOU MIND?

Smirking as if it had all been a clever game, she cocked her head, twitched an eyebrow, and replied, "No...not at all!"

Aiming, she fired the gun at Schreiber's calf, and the bullet went right through his leg and landed in a pool of blood on the floor.

He screamed in agony.

"Handcuffs?" Sherlock asked, ignoring the raucous.

"Of course," she replied, handing him the ones she had fetched from her suitcase.

He rolled his eyes, shaking his head at her ingenuity.

Schreiber was moaning in pain, and his leg was bleeding badly. Sherlock had him on his stomach and was securing his arms behind his back, just as he had done to the man's brother in Berlin a few years ago.

Mycroft Holmes was now striding through the door.

"Excellent work, brother mine."

"Yes," Sherlock replied: modest as always.

Irene coughed.

The Iceman nodded his respects at his agent, saying, "Miss Adler."

She smiled.

A couple of spooks came in after Mycroft, all of them gloved.

As they hoisted Schreiber to his knees, Sherlock came forward to tower above the man. Seizing his chin in his palm, his usually calm eyes seemed to awaken with anger as he spat words into his face. "This woman," Sherlock began, gesturing to Irene, "is under my protection. And if Moriarty thinks that he has caught me by her hand, I would like to ask him to reconsider his methods."

Mycroft stepped closer to his brother and whispered into his ear, "Sherlock..."

It was a warning, and Mycroft's breath hovered at his ear. Mycroft let his hand settle on his brother's shoulder, imploring him to step back.

Dropping the man's chin, Sherlock retreated to stand beside Irene. The spooks hauled Schreiber away, and as they did so, Sherlock slid his arm around Irene's shoulders. Her face glowing, she slid hers around his back. Mycroft was about to follow his team, but turned around before doing so.

Sherlock looked at his brother as he always did whenever he knew he was making his brother uncomfortable: Just try and make me stop.

"Having fun, are we, brother mine?" Mycroft asked.

Irene decided to answer for him. She replied (possibly out of turn): "Loads."

The elder brother rolled his eyes. Sherlock, his arm still around Irene and hers still around his, took this moment to voice his thoughts. "Mycroft, she can't stay here. We need to get her to Baker Street tonight. She'll be safe there."

"How very...convenient," Mycroft replied. His brother returned the eyeroll in response.

Irene slipped out from beneath Sherlock's arms and went out toward the terrace. He would follow her in a few moments, hopefully they could catch a moment alone.

Since when had he hoped for a moment alone?

"We need help to bring her things to Baker Street. I don't believe she's safe here. But I know that she will be safe if we take her back there."

"Had a change of heart, have we, brother mine?"

Sherlock eyed his brother with contempt, unwilling to admit the foolishness of his previous animosity. Mycroft remained smug until Sherlock said nothing in response. Not wanting to press his arrogance too much, the elder simply said:

"I will have her things brought to Baker Street immediately."

Mycroft left the room, calling someone on his mobile. Sherlock went out to the balcony in hopes of finding Irene alone. Perhaps it was best if he...formally apologized to her.

The crisp air slashed at his face as he stepped out onto the terrace. But Irene's absence shocked him even more so. She was gone...but there was a rope tied to the railing and hanging over the side.

A cab was driving away from the place where the rope ended at the road below. She had disappeared into the night. It reminded him of when she had swung out of her bathroom window on the day he had first met her in Belgravia.

Same woman, same tricks.

He laughed as he watched the cab drive away down below. He found himself whispering under his breath, "Clever girl."

Mycroft joined him on the balcony.

"Gone, is she?"

"It would seem," Sherlock replied, still looking down the street where the cab had driven. It had turned onto another street by now, but he still looked in that direction. Mycroft watched his brother's face. It made his heart...what was the word...warm? How would he know...

"You will have the opportunity to cooperate again, I'm sure," he told Sherlock. "...if you don't object to it, brother mine."

"Why would I?"

"Well, the last few days did communicate a certain...message. Cigarette?" He pulled one out of his jacket and offered it to his brother with a gloved hand. Sherlock eyed it suspiciously.

"Thank you...even if it is low tar."

And there, on the balcony, Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes smoked their cigarettes as the autumn night air grew colder and the moon rose higher into the London sky.

Sherlock's phone buzzed inside his pocket, and he reached for it. A bit excited, he wondered what The Woman had sent him. But it wasn't from her at all.

Listening to Billy Joel tonight. – JM x

Mycroft looked over his shoulder and let out an "mm." Sherlock didn't respond to the text, determined to ignore the pest. He had been victorious tonight, and there was nothing Moriarty could do about it. He did wonder what Billy Joel had to do with anything.

Then his phone buzzed again about two minutes later:

This one song just gets me every time, Sherlock. Have you heard it? It goes, "she'll promise you more than the garden of Eden; then she'll carelessly cut you and laugh while you're bleeding. But she brings out the best and the worst you can do; blame it all on yourself because she always was 'the woman' to you." – JM x

Doubt came to sit on his shoulder. It poked its pitchfork into Sherlock's ear, begging to be let in. The man's mind felt squeezed, pulled, and squished as he eyed the words on the screen. Everything resurfaced: vulnerability, betrayal, trust, façade, mirage, domination.

Was it all a —

"Focus, brother mine."

Sherlock returned to reality. He found himself breathing faster than a moment before, and he closed his eyes in an attempt to clear his mind.

"I already have."

Deleting both messages, Sherlock put his phone back in his pocket and spent the rest of the half hour standing in silence and smoking with his brother.

And Jim Moriarty laughed from where he sat holding his phone.


	19. A Night In

A/N (PLEASE READ): Hello, my lovely readers! Just wanted to clear something up really quick. A couple of readers were a bit confused a few days ago when I released the last chapter "Clever Girl." Some of you thought that one of the characters in that chapter was Irene and Sherlock's child: namely, the wild-haired young man who gave Sherlock Irene's note to meet her in her hotel room. He is *not* Irene's son. Irene isn't a mother, nor is Sherlock a father. The young man calls Irene "mum" because that's a form of address that young people use for elders in England. He was not calling her his mother. I have changed him calling her "mum" to him calling her "ma'am" to erase any further confusion on reader's parts, but I am so sorry to have to disappoint any of you who thought this was their secret child. The young man was not Irene's son. Or Sherlock's son. If any of you have any further questions about this mixup (I once again apologize profusely), please leave a comment, and I'd be happy to clear up any confusions you might have. :)

I hope you enjoy this chapter!

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Mycroft still had Irene's things brought from her hotel, and he believed he had every right to. She was his agent, and he wanted her back at Baker Street regardless of whether or not she had intentions to be there. His brother was willing, and that was what mattered. Besides, he needed them together for tomorrow.

He would contact her once her belongings were situated at 221B.

Despite everything she had, there was not much time taken in packing her things away. Two large suitcases full of all her possessions were all that resulted; Sherlock decided that she was used to being ready to leave.

Driving his brother home from The Langham, Mycroft said nothing to him the entire way. Sherlock just stared at the streets, which flew by like phosphorescent blurbs of colorful light. London was a show at night.

When they reached 221B, the lights shone in the upstairs windows, and Sherlock wrinkled his brow. Checking his watch, he realized it was a quarter till midnight. Had John stayed up to wait for him the entire time?

He ran up the stairs two at a time, discovering that John was indeed still there, reading a book in his armchair.

"I'm assuming it went well, then?" John asked, looking up from his novel with a look playing on his face that said all too plainly: "well done."

"Yes...why?" Sherlock asked, taking off his coat and hanging it up on the rack by the door. John chuckled, shaking his head at him.

"What?" Sherlock asked, a bit nervous.

John was about to open his mouth when someone else spoke for him.

"Doctor Watson was a bit surprised to see me here. Is he the only one?" Irene came out of Sherlock's bathroom, wearing his blue bathrobe and her hair lightly cascading down her shoulders in elegant waves.

Sherlock smiled subtly. "I'm afraid he is."

"Am I becoming too predictable, Mr. Holmes?" she asked.

"Only to some, Miss Adler," he replied. She laughed. This time, it was a pleasant noise. Mycroft came up the stairs at that moment, leading two men carrying the suitcases.

"What's this?" John asked, eyeing the luggage with some apprehension.

"Those are mine," Irene replied, going to pick them up. Turning to John, she managed a smirk and said, "You see, Dr. Watson? I'm home."

John's eyes nearly flew out of his head. As Irene disappeared into Sherlock's bedroom lugging one of the suitcases, John turned to his friend with eyes like that of a frightened horse. "Did she just—?"

"Yes," Sherlock interrupted, trying to muffle the amusement in his voice. "Yes, she did."

"Home to stay, is she, brother mine?" Mycroft asked, studying the two men condescendingly. "I hope there's enough room for you both in that tiny little bed of yours."

"I'm sleeping upstairs tonight, Mycroft. Don't lecture me about obvious matters."

"Obvious?"

"Yes, obvious. God knows I'm not setting foot in anyone's room until things are all sorted. Legally."

"How incredibly chaste of you," his brother droned, thumping his umbrella on the floor.

"I've heard it said of me many times," Sherlock replied as Irene returned into the sitting room. John gulped. Mycroft was the living picture of exasperation.

"I suggest you both get some rest. You as well, Doctor Watson. Long day tomorrow."

John's brow furrowed. "What's tomorrow?"

Mycroft smiled eerily at the doctor. Without answering his question, he said, "If you'll follow me downstairs, Doctor Watson. I'll see you out."

"Rosie's asleep upstairs; I can't leave. Not unless I wake her up."

"Then wake her up," he snapped impatiently. John was about to protest before Mycroft added: "Besides..." (he glared at Sherlock) "my brother needs the bed."

John's little tomato of a face nodded, and he dashed upstairs to wake up his daughter. Sherlock looked at Mycroft suspiciously. Irene slid her hand around the detective's arm.

"Keeping secrets are we, brother dear?" Sherlock asked.

"It's for your own good. You'll know soon enough," Mycroft replied, getting out of the way as Sherlock bent down to lug off the second suitcase. Irene smiled.

John came down with Rosie, who was half crying in the middle of some fanciful dream. Sherlock returned after having put the suitcase in his bedroom. "Allow me to apologize, John, for the lack of propriety on the part of my big brother," he said, annoyance distorting his features as he glowered at Mycroft.

John only shook his head at the detective as fatigue pulled down his neck. He cradled the fussing Rosie in his arms.

Mycroft only nodded toward the door, and with that, they both exited 221B. A brief moment of silence followedafter they had descended the staircase. The door remained ajar. Sherlock cleared his throat. Irene sighed, feeling a bit saucy.

"Dinner?"

"No."

"Fine."

She took a small step toward the bedroom, as if deciding whether or not to truly abandon her pursuit, but in the end, she chose retreat.

"Goodnight, Mr. Holmes," she said as she drifted away.

"Goodnight, Miss Adler."

And when she closed the door to his bedroom, Sherlock spotted his violin still lying on the sofa from earlier. Picking it up with the tenderness of a mother holding an injured infant, he held the instrument aloft, examining it before putting it to his shoulder to begin playing.

Auld Lang Syne was a much happier melody than what he had been hearing the last few days. He went over to the window, the dim lights of the flat accentuating the calm, yellow glow of the lamps in the street below. Despite the fact that it wasn't close to being New Year's Eve, he played it anyway.

The music was like blood running through veins, only the music ran through his brain; filling him with energy and belief. He couldn't stop a smile from spreading across his face. This was when he was most happy.

Pausing after about five minutes of playing to change the music, he was surprised to hear another voice in the room.

"Play my piece for me, would you, Sherlock dear?"

Sherlock whirled around. There was Irene, clad in his blue bathrobe and stretched out on the sofa with her eyes closed and her hands behind her head. It reminded him of when he had seen her like that in his mind palace earlier.

His lips clenched together, and he swallowed as his face turned crimson to match her lipstick. He had never told her he had written a song for her...had John? No, his loyalty could have never given out. How could the woman have guessed?

"I never said I had something composed for you," Sherlock instantly responded, his fingers moving quicker to tune his instrument.

"You never had to. I know which one's mine. The angsty, melancholic one with the fluctuating highs and lows. The one you played the night I tucked you in."

He sighed, embarrassment tugging at his hair. He wanted to protest "You did not 'tuck' me in," but he kept that to himself.

Swallowing uncomfortably, he said, "I played a lot of songs that night."

"The one you began with, then. Don't be daft, darling."

Sherlock settled the instrument onto his shoulder as Irene closed her eyes with a smug grin on her red lips.

Letting the bow slide across the strings, Sherlock played the piece he had composed for Irene after he had first met her when she lived in Belgravia...the piece he had written her after he had believed her to be dead. The death of Irene Adler had been an event that shook his emotions unlike anything had ever shaken them before; besides, perhaps, Redbeard. When Irene had died, she had been his enemy, but the thought of her had filled his mind with mystery, desire, uncertainty, and...dare he say it?

Sentiment.

The notes were long and sorrowful, high and low. Sherlock played each note fully and elegantly. The song was from his own heart, and it was written for her. Every time he thought of her, he had played it.

He always played whatever he thought of.

Irene loved hearing it again. This is what she was to him: a violin solo bubbling over with intrigue, longing, and aching forlornity. She could tell how much it meant by the fact that his back was facing her. He was looking out the window; he was thinking.

How infatuated she was with his every action!

He was a singular man; unlike any other she had met before. She could see why the doctor liked him so much.

The romantic notes resonated through the little flat, filling the entire premise with music. Even Mrs. Hudson, downstairs, could hear the melody and was silently stirred by its sounds. Unlike the last few days, the song was different; they were the same notes, but they weren't filled with complete and utter despondence.

The final measure played, Sherlock let the violin rest on his shoulder and let the hand holding the bow fall to his side. Irene's eyes were still closed, and she was finding more and more reason to be satisfied every minute. What a beautiful piece. All my own...just like him.

She sat up after a few minutes of silence to realize that Sherlock had already put his violin back in its case and was putting sheets of music into a folder. He was about to march upstairs to John's bedroom when she called to him.

"Why don't you come and sit, Mr. Holmes? It's a lovely night. I wouldn't want you to miss it."

Sherlock halted. He turned ever so slightly; just enough to meet her eye.

"Long day tomorrow. I—," his voice faltered. He didn't want to leave, and she could see it. But still, he continued in a low, coarse voice, "I need to sleep."

She wouldn't take it.

"Can't you spare five minutes? I promise I won't take up any more." Her eyes were that of a puppy's after a scolding from its favorite person.

Sherlock turned and walked toward the sofa, sitting himself down beside her. She took his arm and slowly looped it around her shoulders. He stared at what she had done with his limb and studied it with disquietude.

"I wanted to tell you something," she breathed.

"Do tell," Sherlock replied.

"You know, I've never had any desire to be anyone's other half."

"No?" Sherlock asked.

"No," she replied, snuggling up to him, "but I don't think I'll mind terribly if I'm yours, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock let her lay on his shoulder and started grinning when he felt her muscles relax. Why was he grinning? He shouldn't be grinning; he shouldn't be liking this at all. But he was.

"Really?" he mused. It wasn't posed as a question, but as a remark. He didn't say it as though he were shocked that she would say it, but as if he were merely considering her statement.

"Yes," she replied, exhaling. "And if we're going to be stuck together, I think we ought to at least try and make it worth something."

"Do you?" he asked sarcastically.

"I should think so."

She pushed herself up a little so she could look into his ever-steady, heterochromic eyes. She smiled into those eyes, and her lips parted. Sherlock glanced down at the woman at his shoulder. His expressionless face was abnormally fluctuating with desirous emotion, and it thrilled her. He leaned down toward her, and she leaned up towards him as he wrapped his arms around her.

Their lips embraced; each one pressed wholeheartedly into the other. Irene was getting what she had silently wanted for the last few years: indeed, here she was, being kissed in the arms of her clever detective.

When they broke apart, she caressed his cheek.

"Are you sure you're set on not having dinner tonight?" she whispered, inching closer to his lips again and reaching up to lace her hands around his neck. He gently took her wandering hands in his own and held them to his chest.

"Why?"

"You might be hungry."

"I'm really not."

"Good, then," she said. She had his full attention now, and as they looked at one another she could sense him trying to find something witty with which to reply. She felt him slipping into her grasp. There was surely nothing he could say...

"It could be the last night before the end of the world," she whispered as he frightfully tried to figure out what to say next. He decided on:

"Why does...this feel familiar?"

She laughed, trying to kiss him again. Before her lips met his, he said (managing miraculously to remain calm), "Mycroft told me about Ukraine."

She stiffened in his arms, and he felt the relaxation scatter from her limbs. Her parted lips closed, and she swallowed disconcertingly. Inside, he was sighing with relief: I've saved myself.

"I knew he would, eventually," she said, forsaking her pursuit with a disappointed air. "My personal requests matter little to him," she added, looking down uneasily.

"You asked him not to tell me?"

She looked up at him, her thin mouth remaining placid on her face.

"Yes. I did."

Sherlock stared.

"Why?"

"It was a personal matter, Mr. Holmes. There was...something I needed to finish."

"Which was...?"

She paused again.

"I believe I mentioned personal matters. A score had to be settled."

"Revenge?"

"Aren't you the clever one," she teased, and he felt her grow a little less tense.

"Does this explain why my brother told me you didn't bait Parliament with the photographs? It was for personal reasons, and you didn't want anything messy?"

"You catch on quickly," she said, her eyes flattering him as well as her words.

"It didn't end the way you intended, I assume?"

"Not nearly. I almost lost my head, Mr. Holmes. I hardly call that a victory."

"You still have your head, unless I'm horribly mistaken, Miss Adler."

She laughed, settling back down on his chest. He didn't want to be finished with this discussion, but if he knew anything, she wouldn't say anymore tonight. But he would hear the end of it eventually...one day he would draw it out.

And she knew that.

"You're not finished with me, are you, Mr. Holmes?"

He laughed in his chest, his arm around her tightening just a bit.

"No. Not yet."

"I shall do my best to keep you intrigued."

He grinned at this response.

She too smiled and rested her head. She could feel his heart throbbing like the steady pumping of a steam engine, and she closed her eyes to its rhythmic drumming. That would have to be enough for now.

He had won this time.

Sherlock held her with pride in his heart. Taking one of her hands in his, he wrapped his fingers around one of her wrists to feel her pulse. It was steady. Contented. Happy. She knew what he was doing, and he felt a suppressed giggle sizzling inside her as she lay against him.

They both merely sat there, without any motion, speech, or touch. None of that seemed to be required. They were quiet, and each one hearing the other's breathing was enough to keep them there.

And Mrs. Hudson was by the door, listening to their conversation.

Her eyes were brimming with tears. She was happy, even if she was confused at her observations. It was so odd: Sherlock being with a woman. She had always thought things about him and John, but, as she always said, "live and let live." What did she know? For goodness sake, here was Sherlock Holmes in her own flat: holding a woman in his arms. Would wonders never cease?

And when John Watson came back fifteen minutes later to get his book (which he had strategically left in his armchair for the sole purpose of secretly returning), Mrs. Hudson kindly told him that "the pair of them upstairs" were "having a moment and it's best if they weren't disturbed." The doctor listened for a moment, finding that it was utterly quiet in the flat. They clearly weren't having an argument. Poor John Watson was left to assume the worst. He sniffed abruptly, thanked her for her pains, and left the way he had come; only this time, his face was red as the leaves in autumn.


	20. Wherein Mycroft Witnesses Two Impossibilities

She is a walking reed.

Her long brown hair is like a cloak around her skeletal frame, and people wonder how she manages to stay upright when she walks. The schoolgirls think she is ugly. Her face is bony, her cheeks hollow, and her lips thin as a needle.

Mummy is dead.

She can't get the images of her dead body on the floor or those unseeing, glossy, eyes out of her head.

She remembers everything.

School has been hard today. When she bounds through the front door, calling for mummy, she screams in horror at the scene before her. Daddy is here, too. He tells her to go upstairs.

"Mummy! Mummy wake up! Wake up! Please, mummy!"

The girl throws herself onto her mother's body, her tears falling onto the lifeless cheeks and her hands clutching the limp fingers. She screams for what seems to be hours, holding her mother's cold hands and begging God to save her only friend.

"Please, God! Please!" she whimpers. Her face is a human river: red cheeks, wet eyes, and runny nose. She sniffles ferociously, choking on her sobs.

"What's wrong with mummy?" she yells at her father, who is standing over the scene with clenched fists.

"She's dead," the man responds. At these words, the girl begins to sob harder, her heart is seemingly melting within her and flows in torrents from her eyes.

"Mummy, no! Mummy! Oh mummy, please, don't leave me! Don't leave me, mummy!"

"Go to your room, Irene."

"No, no! No!" she screams, kicking her arms and legs as the man cruelly wrenches the child from her mother's corpse. "What did you do to her? What have you done?" she hollers, tears rolling down her neck and drenching her chest as she tries in vain to assail her father with blows.

When he finally has her in the bedroom, he pins her down to her bed. She shatters his ears with her cries, and, at his wits end, he pommels the child with a blow from his fist. Her blue eyes shake and glimmer violently, tears standing on the lids' edges. Her lip is quivering with fear, and her cheek is already changing color. She gulps down her sobs, and she coughs as they stick in her throat.

"You close that mouth. Do you hear me? Not a word of any of this to anyone, do you understand me?"

She says nothing, does nothing, her limbs and face have been fossilized by his anger, and she wants to wail.

He raised his fist again and she cried out. He yelled again: "I said, do you understand me? Or I swear, I'll kill you, too. Do you hear me?"

The girl's nods are vigorous. The man lowers his fist, releases her, leaves her room, and locks the door. She lays there on the bed, and now that he is gone, she is left to sob to her heart's content. Burying her face in her pillow, she nearly drenches it through. She wears a nightgown to bed.

Where was Poirot now?

Where was God?

Now that Victoria Adler was dead, Edward Crowley has nothing holding him back from sending his pest of a daughter to boarding school. He had tried to convince Victoria to start a life with him apart from the child he never wanted, but she was too attached to the girl.

For three years, he had begged, argued, demanded that she come away with him, and all he had ever wanted was her love. But Irene.

He hated her for it. She wouldn't leave the child for him. He had told her to get rid of it in the first place, and if she had only listened...well, she wouldn't be dead.

And in the heat of their final argument, he had murdered Victoria. Strangled her. And it was all because of his illegitimate daughter Irene Crowley.

To hell with the child. He doesn't want two dead people on his hands, so he will send her to boarding school somewhere out of his sight.

And that is where she goes.

Her father is arrested for murder, but she never sees it happen, for she is far away at the school in Yorkshire. Her aunt becomes her guardian but has no intention of bringing the girl home. Especially not when she has three of her own to raise.

So Irene Crowley wears a school uniform, studies all day, and draws pictures under her covers by the light of a flashlight when everyone sleeps. Her Bible lies under her bed gathering dust; there seems to be no more of a reason to read it anymore.

The showers are her least favorite place. The girls laugh at her slim figure as she runs, wrapped in a towel, toward somewhere she can dress without scrutiny.

She wants to die.

And one morning, she thinks she almost can.

The showers are cold this morning. She sleeps in later than she normally does and finds nothing but stabbing, liquid ice falling from the showerhead with which to wash herself. Her long hair nearly touches the floor, and she stands on her tiptoes to reach for her towel. Somewhere near the door, she hears a click. To her horror, she finds the stall door cracked open.

That is when the laughing starts.

Eliza Munson, a girl not three years older than Irene, has about three other students behind her. There is a camera in Eliza's hand.

"Eliza, no! Please!" Irene screams, covering herself with her towel and lunging for the girl's hands. But Eliza is taller, holding the camera above the eight-year-old's head and laughing hysterically.

"Eliza, please don't! Please! I'm begging you, please!"

Eliza stops a moment and holds a finger to her mouth to hush her friends. Turning to Irene with mischief clouding her dull, grey eyes, she asks, "What did you say?"

Irene blinks back a few tears.

"I said 'please don't.'"

"No, after that.... Say it again."

Irene gulps. Clutching her towel around her, she says, "I'm begging you. Please. Please, Eliza!" She sniffles pathetically, and a few snickers follow from the girls.

But Eliza, pleased at Irene's frantic begging, turns with the camera in her hands and runs out of the showers with her friends, all of them laughing like a pack of hyenas as they go.

Two weeks later, nearly every girl in the school has seen the photographs of the new pupil, Irene Crowley: naked, shivering, and friendless during her morning shower.

"There she goes," every girl whispers, pointing to the little child every time she comes within eyesight. Irene lowers her head, runs like hell, and prays that no one will follow her. But Eliza's voice is louder than the rest.

"Irene!"

...

Boom.

Irene Adler woke suddenly, breathing as though she had just run a marathon. Her face was wet, and she found a few sobs still in her mouth.

"Oh my God," she whispered to herself, looking up at the ceiling of Sherlock's bedroom and trying to convince herself that she was awake in reality. But then...isn't a single dream sometimes more powerful than a thousand realities?

Because she remembered those days at the school: young, small, and alone.

And Eliza.

Oh, God. Eliza.

Eliza: the one who had poked her open sores with a stick for ten years. Those ten years had been hell. God knew things hadn't ended well.

She smirked at this, even as her blue eyes still glistened with tears.

Boom.

There was that noise again. What was it that had woken her? She wondered if Sherlock had jumped suddenly from the bed upstairs; the sound was reminiscent of the one that had woken her a few nights ago.

It sounded like a pack of frightened elephants were charging down the stairs, and the bedroom door burst open a few seconds later. In rushed Sherlock, wearing his long black coat and a suit underneath. His hair was a bit frazzled, but then again, it always kind of was that way.

"What's going on?" she asked, rubbing her face.

"We need to go. Now. Mycroft just called me; he's arranged somewhere for us to be in two hours. Get yourself ready; he's told us to look smart..." he broke off a moment, studying her face.

"Are—were—are you alright?"

"Yes, why?"

"No reason," he blurted.

He stared at her with a confused expression for a moment, she returning his gaze with neither a smile nor a frown.

"Am I allowed to ask where we're going?" she asked, getting out of the bed.

Sherlock grinned mischievously. "Afraid not."

...

"My brother called me this morning; urgent business. That's all I can say. It's something he's planned, apparently," Sherlock said, opening the door of the cab for Irene and getting in behind her.

"And am I not allowed to know what this business is?"

"No, neither am I, it would seem," he replied.

"Fair enough. we've had our share of secrets. Your brother can have his."

He smirked.

"The cabbie knows where to go?" she asked.

"Mycroft ordered him for us, so yes...he does."

Neither of them spoke for the rest of the ride's duration.

After Sherlock's request to "look smart," Irene had taken a decent amount of time in the bath. She didn't wash her hair for sake of speed, but she curled it and wore it down. Along with her favorite pair of Louboutins, she wore her white sheath dress. It had been a while since she'd worn it, but she felt it was both casual enough and smart enough for anything Mycroft had cooked up.

About ten minutes later, they arrived at a brick building on Harrow Road. Irene was confused. She'd passed this building millions of times, and she knew exactly what it was. And that realization startled her. It was one of the last places Irene had expected they would go.

"Mr. Holmes, is this...?" she asked, her voice dwindled into silence as she realized that Sherlock was ignoring her question. She listened closely as she noticed his mouth moving: he was muttering under his breath, "oh God, no, no, no, not today. Not today, Mycroft. No no no no..." And the no's descended into utter darkness.

He leapt out of the car and toward the door of 317 Harrow Road like a stiff board, Irene following close at his elbow. Mycroft and John were waiting out front for them both. John clasped Sherlock's hand and shook it hard.

"Follow me; I've already arranged everything with Doctor Watson," Mycroft droned. Sherlock's eyes widened at him, and he was about to say something, but Mycroft cocked his head and silenced his brother with a nauseating grimace.

So silently, Sherlock, John, and Irene followed the Ice Man into the building, and they were escorted into a relatively small room with only one window and a few chairs.

"Mycroft, if this is what I think it is, you—" Sherlock began, his breath scorching his brother's face. Mycroft closed his eyes as if bracing himself for the tsunami of the century. Nevertheless, the venomous look in his eye told Sherlock that it was high time to shut up. Sherlock began breathing heavily, refusing to take his eyes from his brother's. Mycroft pointed to two chairs in the front: "Sit down...now."

So Sherlock and Irene sat in the front, Mycroft and John behind them. Irene sat uncomfortably with her legs crossed. She was trying to act as calm as she could, but if today was what she thought it was, her nerves weren't ready for it. Sherlock seemed to be feeling the same, only it was internal. Indeed, his brain was a train wreck.

An old man entered the room, his eyes barely managing to peer over his horn-rimmed spectacles. He held a book in his hand and took his place at the front of the room behind a little speaking platform.

"Afternoon to you all," he said, his voice painfully monotone. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"As you are all aware, we are here today to celebrate the marriage of William Sherlock Scott Holmes and Irene Victoria Elizabeth Adler."

Irene's eyes bugged out: she was not aware. It was exactly as she had suspected.

Sherlock remained incredibly still. She nudged him with her arm, but he only looked forward, as though nothing remotely interesting was about to happen that would dramatically change either of their lives. She thought his eyes had fogged over with some deathlike film, but eventually the pupils moved a millimeter, and she was convinced that he was still alive.

"We're doing this today then, are we?" she whispered, turning to him playfully.

He inspected her with annoyance out of the corner of his eye.

"It wasn't my idea," he whispered, never once moving the position of his head.

She inhaled quietly.

"I could say no," she said, teasing.

"So could I."

"But you won't, will you? ...I won't," she said after a brief pause.

"I know you won't," Sherlock replied, managing the smallest of grins.

"Oh dear God, I am becoming predictable, aren't I?"

She felt something suddenly pressed into her open palm, and John Watson closed her fingers around the object tightly. She opened her hand and found a man's wedding ring: Sherlock's ring. John winked at her as she turned to gawk at him. Of course, they had to present rings to each other. Leave it to Mycroft to go and buy their wedding rings for them. Mycroft had put a woman's ring into Sherlock's hand, and the detective was mouthing curses at his brother. Mycroft almost had the nerve to kick Sherlock's chair, but he maintained his noble dignity. Hissing at his brother to "shut up!" at barely above a whisper, he returned to his sitting position with a head held high.

The registrar continued after what seemed an endless time of shuffling papers around behind his desk: "On their behalf I would like to welcome our witnesses John Hamish Watson and Mycroft Christopher Carlton Holmes. I'm sure it means a great deal to the affianced that you can be here to share in their happiness on this occasion."

Mycroft was yawning. John stepped on his foot, forcing Mycroft to nod at the registrar and smile painfully. The doctor rolled his eyes.

"This place in which we are now met has been duly sanctioned, according to law, for the

celebration of marriages. You are here to witness the joining in matrimony of William Sherlock Scott Holmes and Irene Victoria Elizabeth Adler. If any person present knows of any lawful impediment to this marriage, he or she should declare it now."

Silence from every person in the room.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes and Irene Victoria Elizabeth Adler," the man continued, "before you are joined in matrimony, I have to remind you of the solemn and binding character of the vows you are about to make. Marriage, according to the law of this country, is the union of two people, voluntarily entered into for life, to the exclusion of all others. The purpose of the marriage is that you may always love, care for, and support each other through all the joys and sorrows of life; and that love may be fulfilled in a relationship of permanent and continuing commitment."

Mycroft startled them as he silently slipped his head in between both of theirs and whispered into their ears: "The purpose of the marriage is that you may save England." Then he slipped creepily back into his chair, John nearly mauling his head off with angry glances.

Sherlock's ears were unbearably hot.

If only the registrar knew their reasoning for being "joined in matrimony." Irene tried not to laugh, and Sherlock seemed to understand her thoughts. But maybe there was something more to this than just the fate of England...maybe.

The registrar drawled on: "Today they wish to publicly affirm this commitment and offer each other the security that comes from legally binding vows, sincerely made and faithfully kept. Now I am going to ask each of you in turn to declare that you know of no lawful reason why you should not be married to each other."

Sherlock offered his arm to Irene, and she took it, both of them standing in unison. John Watson was trying not to die with excitement. Mycroft Holmes was trying not to...regurgitate? Was that the right word to use? He had been the one to orchestrate all this, and yet he was currently experiencing something like trauma as he watched the revolting scene take place before his very eyes.

The registrar looked over his glasses at Irene.

"Are you, Irene Victoria Elizabeth Adler, free, lawfully, to marry William Sherlock Scott Holmes?" he asked.

Irene looked up at Sherlock—smug as ever—and without once taking her eyes off him, she answered the registrar's initial question with, "I am."

The old man turned to Sherlock and repeated the question.

"Are you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, free, lawfully, to marry Irene Victoria Elizabeth Adler?"

Sherlock was trying to properly gulp down a strange, dusty lump that had suddenly formed in his throat, and after he had finally shoved it down, he replied (almost like a choke), "I am."

He had done it. He was doing it. Something he had sworn he would never do. He was going and...marrying himself off. Marrying himself off? Was that even a term people use? He turned around to briefly look at John and Mycroft. They were starkly different portraits.

The officer continued.

"Now the moment has come for Mr. William Sherlock Scott Holmes and Ms. Irene Victoria Elizabeth Adler to contract their marriage before you, Mr. Mycroft Christopher Carlton Holmes and John Hamish Watson, their witnesses, family, and friends."

Irene and Sherlock stood facing one another, both of them looking into the other's face. John was now trying his very best not to squeal.

"Now we will present the rings. Mr. Holmes, please do repeat after me," he said. The registrar spoke the first sentence and nodded at Sherlock to repeat it. And he tried...with great difficulty.

"Irene Victoria Elizabeth Adler, I give you this ring as a sign of our marriage, as a token of my—" he broke off. The words were disobediently remaining in his mouth. He didn't know if he could say the rest. Was it even real? He attempted a second time.

"My—"

Irene looked at him. The registrar was looking at him. John was looking at him. Mycroft was looking at his emails.

Sherlock cleared his throat almost in slow motion, trying to bring the words up to his lips. This was more difficult than he had bargained for. He inhaled and swallowed. One more try.

"A token of my...my love...and...affection...and as a symbol of our commitment to each other."

The registrar officer cleared his throat with confused annoyance and had Sherlock repeat the next portion. The poor man did so as well as he could, but every other word made his heart either swell or shrivel inside him, and his lungs were collapsing as he struggled at each inhale. His voice sounded like a whisper coming from the throat of a suffocating man, but nevertheless, he persisted.

"I call upon these persons here present to witness that I, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, do take thee, Irene Victoria Elizabeth Adler, to be my...my lawful wedded..." (he swallowed grimly and his eyes closed as if he was about to battle the entire British army) "my lawful wedded wife. I promise to...to love and to care for you...to honour and respect you...and share with you all that I have. May we look forward to our future together with hope and happiness and always remember the...the... ahem" (he cleared his throat yet again) "...the feelings we share for each other on this: our wedding day."

The officer was very confused.

Sherlock took Irene's little shaking pale hand and slipped the ring onto her ring finger. Then the registrar officer spoke to Irene, ordering her to repeat after him next. She was almost surprised at how difficult it was. She didn't stutter, but her insides were falling a thousand kilometers a minute down an icy hill.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes...I give you this ring as a sign of our marriage, as a token of all my love and all my affection for you, and as a symbol of the commitment we are making to each other. I call upon these persons here present to witness that I, Irene Victoria Elizabeth Adler, do take thee, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, to be my lawful wedded...my lawful wedded... husband. I promise...I promise that I will love you, and I will care for you. I will honour and respect you. I promise to share with you all that I have. May we look forward to our future together with hope and happiness and may we always remember the feelings that I know we both share for each other on this: our wedding day."

She almost winked at him when she mentioned the feelings "she knew they both share for each other." He was looking quite grim and pale. John wondered if he needed a good smacking to bring him back from wherever it was he had drifted off to.

She delicately slipped the ring onto his finger. As he looked into her face, he found himself desperately wanting to look away: she was wearing that innocent, coquettish grin and making his lip squirm as he tried his very best not to smile. Her eyes were flirting, and he couldn't stop himself from allowing a petite grin to break his tranquil mouth.

The officer continued.

"Now, Irene Victoria Elizabeth Adler and William Sherlock Scott Holmes, you have both made the declarations prescribed by law and have made your promises to one another in the presence of your witnesses here today. Let us hope that this day will form a special day in your lives to look upon with much love and happiness. It gives me great pleasure to declare that you are now legally married."

At the last syllable of the man's words, Sherlock awkwardly hovered a few moments in front of Irene's face, timidly put his arms around her waist, and, like a feather gently falling to the ground, he delicately let his lips settle on her own. As ever she was, emotional Irene reached up to close her thin fingers around his lapels and pulled him in to intensify the kiss. She let one of her hands wander through his forest of black locks.

Mycroft Holmes, meanwhile, had since pulled himself out of his emails and was now having the greatest coughing spell England had ever seen. He he felt a sudden need to use the restroom and excused himself prematurely to John's utter disgust.

"I suppose this means I've been good then?" Irene asked, the two of them still within close proximity of the other and their noses nearly touching. She was still holding one of his lapels in her frightfully vicelike fingers, and he still had her enveloped in his arms.

"Don't get your hopes up," he quipped.

"Whyever not?" she asked, as he struggled trying to decide whether or not he should kiss her again. She noticed his dilemma and decided for him. He laughed as she did so.

John Watson was admiring with puppy eyes.

"Where has Mr. Mycroft Holmes gone?" asked the officer, startling Sherlock and Irene and interrupting them mid-kiss. They both looked at John for salvation. Neither of them had noticed how Mycroft had hurried from the room.

"He just went out to get some water; I'll get him," John replied, stalking off in haste.

"We still need witnesses for the signing of the register," the officer continued, addressing the couple. Irene slowly let go of Sherlock and he, a bit embarrassed at the officer's interruption, reluctantly put his hands behind his back.

Mycroft came out behind John a few moments later. The doctor was muttering rebukes and Mycroft was nodding and muttering dismissive comments.

"They've got to sign the bloody register."

"I know, Doctor Watson."

"Then what'd you storm off for, then?"

"Fit of coughing; didn't want to ruin the moment."

"Oh, fine..."

The register was signed. Mycroft and John watched on as two of the most complicated people that either of them had ever met signed themselves into marriage. Mycroft noticed, with some calm irritability, that Sherlock was hardly scowling. There went his chest again...feeling all...warm inside.

And as Sherlock set down the pen after the signing of the register, two things that Mycroft Holmes would never have deemed possible had actually occurred: the dominatrix had settled down to marry a man, and his brother had married a woman.


	21. In Which John Watson is Hilariously Frightened

"We're not doing the honeymoon thing, are we?" Sherlock had asked his brother over his glass of wine. Irene looked almost insulted that he had asked such a thing.

"Of course you're doing the honeymoon thing," Mycroft had snapped in a reply, unfairly mimicking Sherlock's voice. The detective scowled at him. His brother continued, "It's all been arranged, and it's what must be done."

"May I be the first to say that I shall look forward to it?" Irene butted in, glaring at her husband as he stared down his brother. Her husband...this was going to be interesting. Her whole life had just become significantly more interesting on a number of levels.

"You mean to say you've arranged our...you know..."

"Your *ahem* holiday?" John piped up, smirking at Sherlock. He had cleared his throat to blot out a certain word, but Sherlock recognized the allusion. He had given a certain name to John and Mary's honeymoon...and written about it on John's blog of all places.

Sherlock's eyes morphed into embarrassed little circles at the recognition. Mycroft coughed. Irene laughed heartily.

Of course they'd all followed John's blog.

"That still isn't something we can tell children, and I beg forgiveness for ever having poked fun, John," Sherlock whispered, silently pleading for the doctor to keep his voice down. It set John into a fit of suppressed laughter.

"Sorry, honeymoon," he said, correcting himself with mock sincerity.

Irene was simpering vainly.

"What kind of a matrimony is this, Mycroft? Not one sanctioned by God, I should think," Sherlock remarked, his brother all the while looking like he was sitting on icicles.

"Sanctioned by the fate of England, then? Let's not be blasphemous, brother mine."

"Oh, Mycroft," Sherlock groaned, massaging his head and holding it in his hands. He looked at John, who was eagerly snarfing down his plate of fish and chips. Taking a gulp of ale in between bites, the doctor noticed Sherlock studying him.

"I think you ought to be at least happy, Sherlock," John said.

"I'm not unhappy," Sherlock replied. "But this does change things. If our honeymoon is already planned for us, then where are you sending us...Mycroft?"

Mycroft wasn't eating any of the food he had ordered: his fisherman's pie was untouched and growing cold. Sherlock never understood why his brother ordered that. It's not like he even enjoyed it for God's sake!

"Well, I thought I'd surprise you two lovebirds," he said, putting his elbows on the table and resting his chin in his fists. Sherlock rolled his eyes and breathed exasperation.

Mycroft continued as he spotted the deadly look on his brother's face, "But seeing as you're rather cross...I suppose I'll tell you," he said, taking his napkin from his lap and dabbing his lips as if they were made of porcelain. "How do you like Reykjavik?"

Irene's lips mushed into a smile. "Sounds lovely," she mused, taking a lengthy sip of her wine. Sherlock, on the other hand, was dumbfounded.

"Reykjavik? In October? Do you know how cold it will be, or did that slip your mind, too?" he asked. Irene set down her glass and tsked her tongue at him.

"Oh," the detective moaned, rolling his eyes, "this should be interesting. I did not want a honeymoon, Mycroft. Does it look like I have time for one? I can't leave the country. Not now. Can't you see what's going on? This is the last thing that must be done!"

"Do shut up, brother mine," Mycroft said, holding his temples with the tips of his fingers and wincing as if Sherlock's protests were giving him a migraine. "I'm tired of your rebuttals. Besides, you haven't exactly...seemed to mind my plans up until this point...have you?"

Sherlock went red. Irene was beaming childishly into her glass.

"You know you could always speak to me about this, darling," she piped up, annoyed at how he discussed their honeymoon as though she were invisible. "I'm your wife, after all."

Sherlock went from red to burgundy.

"I know...do stop saying it. I think that was the third time this hour."

"You've been counting?"

"What else is there to do?"

She laughed at the little smirk on his lips.

Mycroft smiled weirdly and chimed in: "My point exactly." His voice was the very sound of triumph. Sherlock put his face in its proper position and shoved a forkful of pie into his mouth.

"We'll have a good time, Mr. Holmes; seeing as there's nothing to stand in your way. We'll have a wonderful time...I'm quite sure of that," Irene said, eyeing him.

"I'm sure you are," Sherlock replied after he had swallowed a bit of kidney.

"As am I," Mycroft added. Sherlock glanced at his brother: his eyes were demanding, "why do you have to keep butting in?" Mycroft only grinned in spite of him.

"When do we leave?" Sherlock asked.

"Tomorrow morning. There's a flight leaving Heathrow for Reykjavik at 10:00, and you'll be on it."

After a moment of dead silence, Sherlock said, "Do close your mouth, John; it isn't polite to chew with one's mouth open." John promptly swallowed his peas.

"You could have given me notice," Sherlock said to his brother, standing and starting to pull on his coat.

"Care to make any deductions as to why I didn't?" Mycroft asked, taking a nibble of his lunch. It was likely cold by now, and John wrinkled his nose.

"You two'd better get home to pack then, eh?" the doctor asked, looking at Sherlock and Irene.

"Shut up," Sherlock snapped. John was trying not to laugh at his friend's situation. Irene was studying him earnestly, her eyes narrowing. He found her eyes examining his, and he stopped halfway in getting his arm through his coat sleeve.

"I don't think you know what you're getting yourself into, Mr. Holmes. You're not in the least bit afraid of what you've done to yourself."

"I don't see a reason I should be."

"There..." she said, "that's the spirit."

John was now staring absentmindedly into his glass of ale, whilst Mycroft busied himself with emails on his phone. Irene and Sherlock stared at one another, almost daring the other to look away...John glanced up every now and then and thought he was witnessing them flirt...without words or movement. Only severe, challenging eye contact.

"But Doctor Watson's right," Irene finally said, without averting her gaze. "We really should get back to pack."

"I agree," Sherlock said, putting his arm through the jacket sleeve which had hitherto been only half covered.

...

221B Baker Street was oddly quiet as John Watson and Sherlock Holmes sat in their armchairs and listened to the fire crackle in the hearth. Irene Adler had gone out on some mysterious errand, Molly Hooper was babysitting Rosie at John's place, and Mrs. Hudson had run out of tea and was making her way to the nearest Tesco.

The two men were alone for what seemed to be the first time in months. Maybe even years. John was intensely reading a novel, and Sherlock was meticulously studying the daily paper (which he still read, despite having a fully functioning mobile phone). Glancing up for a moment from the pages, the detective was reminded of the days when he had first moved in with John and before anything had ever blown over with Moriarty, with Irene, or even with Eurus.

Things were changing. His life, John's life, and the lives of everyone around him had morphed into something beyond anything any of them could ever have imagined. And now, seeing the dear little soldier of a friend sitting opposite him and reading a novel seemed to warm his heart and give it an undesired nostalgic glow.

John Watson—in all his militaristic spunk, undying loyalty, and heart of persistent steel—had never failed to remain present in the detective's lonely life.

And now, here they were: on the night of his wedding and the eve of his honeymoon. They went from being a pair of adrenaline-seeking bachelors to...whatever it was they were now. What had happened to the pair of them since it all had gotten started?

So much. God knows just how much.

"Well, John, I've done it."

"Done what?" John asked, a bit panicky. He set down his book in terror. His frightful response set Sherlock in a humorous frame of mind. John further inquired, "Oh God, Sherlock, what have you done?"

"Done that which I said I never would do."

"The point of which being..."

"Romantic entanglement."

John let out a long, "ohhh," his mouth likewise shaped into a perfect little "o." His eyebrows danced on his forehead and his eyes were bulging. He nodded at his friend.

"No, you've fallen in love, Sherlock. That's what it is."

"I'll admit it is...a first..."

"Are you even listening to me? You've fallen in love, Sherlock, and you'd better start admitting it before...you know..."

"What?" Sherlock's voice suggested offence.

"Before you go on your honeymoon and start being a married man," John finished.

It took about ten seconds for Sherlock to register what John was implying, and during those said ten seconds, neither one said a word. It was like John had asked Sherlock to be his best man all over again. But once it had fully registered, it became Sherlock's mouth's turn to make an even wider "o" than John's, and his eyes widened with an appalled air.

"John!"

"You're a husband, Sherlock! A bloody husband! Oh my God..." John stopped talking and starting laughing uncontrollably. He had his hands over his face and was rocking back and forth in his chair: his entire frame shaking with his wholehearted chortles.

Sherlock held his lip between his teeth and held the newspaper up to hide his face. John just kept giggling hysterically. A few snorts issued forth as well. Sherlock tried conversing.

"John, Irene and I are—,"

John interrupted him midway through a snort.

"Oh, so we're calling her Irene now, are we?"

Sherlock almost choked on his own tongue. Had he just called her Irene?

"Is there a reason I shouldn't?"

"Oh, I dunno; maybe you've just been calling her 'The Woman' and 'Miss Adler' for the last few years, so hearing her first name spoken aloud feels a bit sacrilegious, especially for you. Just takes a bit of getting used to, I guess," he said, sniffing abruptly as the laughter tried to force its way up again.

"Come on, Sherlock. You listen to me. Do you hear? Listen to me, Sherlock, 'cause if you don't, you'll regret it later. I swear, you will, mate."

Sherlock put down the paper and gave John his best attention...even if he was trying to read the headlines out of the corner of his eye. John noticed. He picked up the paper, crumpled it, and threw it into the hearth. It sizzled and burned up in a blaze of glory...just like Sherlock's dignity.

"I'm listening," Sherlock said, sighing heavily, putting his fingertips together, and crossing his right leg over his left one.

"You don't know what women are like," John began, crossing his arms over his chest.

"As I've said before, John," his friend replied, "the fair sex was always your department."

The doctor rolled his eyes and muttered "the fair sex" in a mocking tone under his breath, making air quotes to Sherlock's irritation.

"Go on, John; we haven't got all night. Pray do continue," he said, making gestures with his hand to urge the doctor along.

"Sometimes you won't always know what to say. You won't always know what to do. You're not going to understand her, and you have to be...okay with that."

"Why wouldn't I understand her?"

"So you always do?"

Sherlock was quiet a moment, trying to decide if he should admit the answer that had popped up inside his mind.

"Exactly," John said, reading the expression on the genius's face and deciding his hypothesis was correct. Even the smartest of men were quite dumb when assigned the daunting task of understanding females.

"That's what you've got to remember, Sherlock. You won't always understand. But that doesn't mean something's wrong. It just means she's a woman."

"She's—."

"Oh, yeah, right; sorry—the woman," the doctor said, hiccupping on a few of his little giggles. Sherlock chuckled awkwardly, pretending his face was not the color of a blood moon.

"And try to enjoy yourself," John added after his spasm of mirth had subsided. "You only get to do this the once, and it is Iceland." His lips shrugged in unison with his shoulders, and he continued, "Never been, but I've heard it's quite spectacular."

"Oh, yes...especially in October, when the temperatures begin to drop, and the Scandinavian winter sets in. Of course...spectacular," Sherlock groaned; his voice was dripping with gelatinous sarcasm.

"Optimism, Sherlock. Optimism is key."

At that moment the door opened downstairs, and Sherlock recognized Irene's enthusiastic, forward stride ascending the stairs. He was almost upset at himself for having it memorized.

She entered with a few bags in her hands.

"Where were you?" Sherlock asked.

"Out," she replied. "Had some shopping to do."

"Obviously," he cleverly remarked, pointing to the shopping bags.

"A clever deduction, Mr. Holmes. Trying to impress me?"

"I wouldn't think you are so easily impressed," Sherlock replied. John winked at him from behind the pages of his book. The doctor thought his friend was almost beginning to sound flirtatious. It was definitely a good start.

Sherlock grinned in reply. Irene laughed airily and left the pair of them as she set her new possessions down in her bedroom...well, their bedroom now.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" came her voice, echoing down the hall. She trotted back into the sitting room after a few seconds.

"Yes?" he asked, turning from where he had been whispering with John.

"We are married now, are we not?"

"I believe so."

"And I have legally become your wife, is that not correct?"

"It is," Sherlock replied with some uneasiness. He was afraid of the next words that would emerge from the pit of fire that was Irene Adler's mouth.

"Then tell me," she said, waltzing toward him until she was looking directly down into his face, "when will you start calling me by my given name?" she asked, her lips smushing into a sultry grin as she crossed her arms over her chest.

"Was I ever supposed to?" he asked, rising slowly to stand (as if on trial) before her.

"I suppose," she replied, dusting off a bit of imaginary dust from his shoulder. "I hardly know of any married couples who call one another by their surnames. Do you?" she asked.

"Not unless it's an Austen novel," he replied with some cheek. She laughed.

John Watson, meanwhile, was colouring furiously into his novel and trying to fight the overwhelming impulse to scream "HAMISH!" This moment was stirring up old memories in his mind. He decided they had never really gotten past the baby naming stage.

"You've not answered my question, darling," Irene purred, looking up at her husband with impish mischief glimmering in her eyes.

"What would you suggest I call you?" Sherlock asked, almost sarcastically. He drew her closer with his hands gently holding her forearms.

"Well, there is my name...Irene," she said. "I'd love to hear you say it," she added, her voice growing softer as if she was being slowly sucked into something. Then she was kissing him, and Sherlock was generously reciprocating the sentiment.

John Watson's stout little soldier heart flew into his mouth, unable to take anymore. It's definitely great, and definitely something I've always wanted for Sherlock...but Jesus! it's weird. 

John thought his face was about to blow up with being embarrassed. He thought Janine and Sherlock kissing was an odd sight...but this...this was unearthly. Unearthly in the best way possible, but still: unearthly.

Neither Sherlock nor Irene seemed to remember that he was still in the room.

So he decided to humor their ignorance.

But yelling Hamish wasn't going to work this time.

Leaping from his chair, he mumbled something hurriedly about "Molly texting" and "Rosie's lonesome" and "gotta start dinner" and "cheers see you tomorrow." Nearly knocking over the coatrack as he pulled his coat off it, John Watson shut the door to 221B, bounded down the stairs as if the building were on fire, and screamed "TAXI!" as he made it to the sidewalk. He was quite out of breath.

"John? What you on about?" Mrs. Hudson asked with maternal concern as she gaped at him panting furiously on the pavement. He turned around and laughed uncomfortably.

"It's wonderful, I think. Also scary, though," he said, swallowing and pointing at some invisible object floating by. "Yeah, definitely scary. Scary as hell."

He paused as the landlady stared at him; she was apparently dumbfounded. He wondered if he should say what he was about to, and for the sake of the old woman's sanity, he decided he should and ought.

"D'you...d'you mind—just—don't go upstairs for a little while, 'kay? Just...let the two of them alone and...yeah. Just stay downstairs for me, would you?"

A tinkly stream of unstoppable titters issued from the woman's lips, and John looked incredibly vexed as Mrs. Hudson keeled over with vivacious humor.

"Oh John!" she laughed, wiping her hands on her apron. John wondered what he'd said. She kept giggling for some time until she caught her breath and said, "Why'd you think I didn't bring up a pot of tea this afternoon? I always do, but not today! His brother told me...and oh! I wouldn't dare...and at my time of life! Oh, John!" she turned around to go inside, still laughing hysterically as she did so.

And John was left to stand on the pavement and wrinkle his nose as he waited for a cab.

Eventually one did come, and once he was safe inside, he laughed and said to himself, "That git," he chuckled. "The bloody...bloody clot."

The driver turned his head and gruffly demanded, "Oi! You talkin' to me, sir?"

John remembered himself.

"No, no! Just...talking to myself. That's all, thanks...just...to myself."

The driver awkwardly resumed his task and turned the radio up a little higher.

John whispered and continued musing to himself: "A wife...a bloody wife. You'd better love the woman if you can't do anything else, Sherlock. You'd better love her. And I hope that more than anything you've ever tried to do before, you'll at least try and give it your damn best."


	22. Impress a Girl

"You know you aren't obligated to know everything, don't you, Mr. Holmes?"

"No, I am," he responded. There was only one way to describe his present state of mind: pissed off. "I need to know why Wellington was murdered. Schreiber gave us no clue during the confession. I shall have to listen to his questioning session. I'll have Lestrade send me the audio file. I need to understand why he had to die...of all the people, why Arthur Wellington? Why him? Why?"

"Jim told me it was because he likes to watch us work together, but I can tell that you—as well as I—hardly find that to be an acceptable motive."

"You catch on quickly," he said, his breathing growing faster as his thoughts spiraled out of control. Possibilities whirred in front of his mind's eye, and not knowing which was true and which was false drove him to mania.

"As you said before, listen to the audio file of his questioning session. Until then, why aren't you at liberty to enjoy the present? You've been distant...at least most of the time. God knows I won't say all. You seemed quite at your leisure last night, if you'd like me to be specific."

Irene stroked his hand compulsively from her side of the dinner table. Sherlock didn't understand why they were here. His wife had insisted on a night downtown, and he had merely shrugged when she dragged him into one of Reykjavik's finer restaurants.

"Don't pretend you haven't enjoyed yourself," she teased, playing with the ring on his finger. He stared at her toying. "I hope I've not disappointed you," she cooed further.

"Please," he breathed, his eyes tipping upward. "Don't make this about you." He took an exasperated drink of his wine.

"You misunderstand me," she replied. "I was asking about your satisfaction."

"I just don't know."

"Already getting cold feet, are we? It's only been four days."

"No, not about—I mean about the Wellington case! I don't understand the motive. And I don't like...not knowing," he whispered, taking an angry stab at his lifrarpylsa. Irene's face shivered as he sadistically stabbed his fork into the fat, oval-shaped lump of meat sitting on his plate. She could still see the stitches holding the meat's casing seams together.

"You do know what you're eating, don't you? I didn't want to say anything initially, but I did hope you knew what lifrarpylsa was when you ordered it," she said, her blue eyes widening with sarcastic curiosity.

"Of course I know what it is," Sherlock snapped, avoiding eye contact and violently cutting off a piece with his knife. The casing ripped and some...innards bulged out. It was just as he had suspected, and that aggravated his gag reflex.

To tell the truth, Sherlock had no clue what he had ordered. He had eaten fairly decent food so far in Reykjavik, so he decided that whatever "lifrarpylsa" was couldn't be much different. The menu descriptions weren't specific, and he was too bored to ask someone what it was.

Then they brought the plate.

Oh God.

After he made a few clever deductions, he wasn't sure if he really wanted to eat this great big ball of sheep intestine, blood, and fat. It was like haggis...which he could never stomach as a child. Whenever his mother made haggis, he always gave it to the ever-hungry Mycroft.

Irene was watching expectantly for him to put the fork in his mouth.

He was about to put it down, but he saw her examining him. She raised an eyebrow, provoking him to taste it.

He lifted the fork to his lips and shoved it in without hesitation.

After a few quick chews, he swallowed it triumphantly, waving the unadorned fork in front of his face like a trophy. A brief shudder passed over his features, but it was gone as soon as it had come. Irene glared at him suspiciously. Now his throat was heaving, and her eyebrows flew upwards in a panic as her lips formed into a delighted smile. He kept it down, but the expression on his face was one she would not easily forget. She laughed quietly deep inside her throat.

"I told you," she said, "No one orders that unless they don't know what it is."

"I knew what it was."

"Then why did you almost throw it up? You looked almost as ill as you did the day I left you on the floor of my flat in Belgravia."

"I've not forgotten that."

"I should hope not. All the ordinary couples quiz one another routinely on the day they first met. 'What they first said' and 'what did they eat' and 'what they were wearing.' Lucky for you that last one ought to be easy," she said, jogging his memory.

"32-24-34," he replied. His voice was ever so matter-of-fact. It sounded like he was reading the numbers off of a card.

"Still flattered," she remarked. Sherlock's stomach glowed.

"Obviously," he said, his face and tone of voice communicating a supposed "disinterest" in her praises. But by it she knew he was flirting with her.

"What do you think has driven your brother to send us away...to Reykjavik of all places? Hardly a romantic sentiment, I should think. If Mycroft Holmes is going to pay for anything, it isn't going to be a couple's honeymoon."

"My thoughts exactly," he replied, picking at the Icelandic haggis. It was a giant sausage, and it spun around whenever he flicked it with his fork. He pushed his plate aside and made a face.

"Perhaps the Ice Man thinks we've been naughty," Irene suggested. "I honestly wouldn't blame him if he did. God knows you give him enough to think about on your own. Adding me to the equation made things much more complicated, didn't it?"

"That is a gross understatement," he commented, turning to look out the window. Night had fallen like a blanket over the island, and Icelanders in thick sweaters and heavy coats walked down the streets waving their gloved hands at one another.

"But I...suspect we will understand him soon. We only have three more days here. If he lets us return without so much as a phone call, then I'll begin to think he really is getting slow." The detective stared pensively out the window.

Irene hummed a hmm from her side of the table. Sherlock's ill-timed grandma seizure was interrupted as he heard the sound issue from her mouth. She knew it would get his attention; she was thinking. He knew she was thinking, but what was she thinking about? And why was she thinking it?

"Hmm what?" Sherlock asked.

"Just hmm. I'm thinking, Mr. Holmes. Am I allowed?"

He chuckled somewhere inside his chest, but not loud enough so she could hear.

"In case you haven't noticed," she continued, "I'm not taking my clothes off to make an impression. You said that was boring. God knows I don't want to bore that sexy brain of yours," she said, once again referencing the time they had first met.

"Flattery won't help you, Miss Adler. What are you thinking about?"

"And why are you still calling me Miss Adler? I'm your wife. I thought we had this out on the day we were married. Do I flatter myself in thinking that I was quite persuasive in getting you to call me Irene that day?"

Sherlock reddened.

Her rant went on.

"But I'm still 'Miss Adler.' You ought to be calling me by my name. And if not that, then 'dear' or 'darling' or...'goddess divine.' Something like that."

"I have absolutely no intention—" Sherlock began, but he was cut off.

"Escuse me...Meester Sherlock Holmes, ees it, sir?" asked a light, breathy voice veiled in a thick Icelandic accent.

A young woman with bright, almost white blonde hair and phosphorescent blue eyes had approached the table. She was a waitress, but her hands were empty: no notepad, no tray, no bill.

"Yes, can I help you?" Sherlock asked, a bit snappish. His brain was still a bit hot from his conversation with Irene...hot from flirtation or irritation he did not know which. The wife noticed.

"Gently, darling," she tenderly scolded, patting her husband's hand. Indignation set his eyes tumbling around in their sockets, and he inhaled with what seemed to be the sole intention of blowing up his lungs. Irene scowled at him childishly.

The girl nervously staggered in front of their table, wringing her hands. Sherlock Holmes was quite the intimidating man.

"Eef you would follow me please?" she asked. If a mouse could talk, it would have had her voice. "I have been talt thet you both are et the wrong table."

Sherlock was confused.

"The wrong table? We...we never made reservations."

"I'm sorry, sir...thet is what I am being talt. Thees way, please."

Sherlock stood up reluctantly, and Irene snagged his arm so they could walk side by side. He rolled his eyes...again. It was becoming a custom, now: a daily routine. He was surprised his eyes hadn't stuck permanently.

They followed the girl toward the back end of the restaurant, near the bar. Passing the stools, they came to a black curtain covering an archway made of stone. Plenty of the buildings in Iceland were made of stones, and this one was no exception.

As the girl pulled back the curtain, they saw that their path descended down a flight of stairs.

They followed the young woman, but the walls were too narrow for them to both walk side by side. Irene went first and Sherlock followed, his hands tracing the patterns of the stones in the walls. The steps were creaky boards, and as the veil closed behind Sherlock, and the light disappeared from above, almost completely converting the stairwell into inky blackness.

There was a light from below, and as they reached the bottom of the stairs, they found themselves in a long room with a single long table. It looked like a hundred people could sit at this table; like a banquet hall for a king and queen. The entire room itself looked to be fifty feet long. The table was equally proportioned. There were torches in the walls; the only source of light. The floors and walls were made of stone, and the room looked like a scene from a Nordic history book.

Returning his gaze to the long table, Sherlock noticed that at the head sat one man: one tall, thin, balding man with a suit...and there was an umbrella lying near his seat.

The young girl hurried out of the room, disappearing up the staircase.

"Evening, brother dear; we've been expecting you," Sherlock called to the man in the chair, who had since risen from his seat to meet them. Mycroft smiled that wiry smile and misemployed his umbrella as a walking stick as he sauntered toward them.

"Ah; how are things, dear brother?" Irene asked, silkily stringing her words to the annoyance of the Ice Man.

"Oh, let's not do the 'in-law thing.' Matters are already complicated enough, Miss Adler. Let's not add familial drama into it," Mycroft said, his voice suggesting previous pain. Sherlock snickered. Dysfunctional family matters were not uncommon in the Holmes household, and adding in-laws into the mix certainly would not help.

"As you like," Irene replied, walking past the two gentlemen to seat herself near the head of the table where Mycroft was situated. Mycroft and Sherlock exchanged vexed glances as she left them.

"Enjoying Reykjavik? I hope marital bliss suits you both," Mycroft sneered, walking after Irene and leaving his brother to stand alone.

"I should think it does," Irene piped up, catching Sherlock's eye as he whirled around. He looked at her forebodingly, reminding her not to embarrass him in front of his brother: the one who either sailed or sunk his ship of ego.

"He's quite the lover, Mr. Holmes. Keeps me on my toes. I'll say no more for fear of being indelicate," she told Mycroft, as he glowered uncomfortably. It looked like his mouth was jammed shut and every effort to speak was unfairly denied him. He let out a kind of muffled coughing noise that was reminiscent to the sound of a cat trying unsuccessfully to throw up an abnormally large hairball.

Sherlock, likewise, was battling a serious case of internal chagrin.

"But that's beside the point," she abruptly pointed out. "We've much more important things to discuss. Now do explain: you didn't leave England just to check up on us, now did you?" she asked, beckoning to her husband and brother-in-law to take their seats at the table.

They both obeyed...reluctant to take orders from an ex-dominatrix.

"Well, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, sitting across from Irene with his elbows on the table, hands glued in concentration, and fingertips just beneath his nose. "Why have you really brought us to Iceland?"

Mycroft looked almost offended that he had been found out. But as he studied the faces of his brother and...his brother's wife...he remembered that they were both equally matched in wit and cleverness. He should have known he had been fighting a losing game the entire time.

"We've caught wind of something," Mycroft said, slowly letting his secret out of the bag. "We've had news. The most infinitesimal of news, I should say. And I couldn't tell you while we were in London. This is one of the safest places I know outside the country, and I knew I could disclose the information here."

"Wait a moment," Sherlock said, his eyes glimmering with a conclusion. Turning to Irene, he said, "This is why you brought us to dinner here tonight. Working for the British Government."

"I contacted her," Mycroft said, "but yes; that is why she brought you here tonight."

"Well done, Mr. Holmes," Irene praised, a light smile gracing her face. "Though I will say I am in the dark about the information you have for us, Mycroft. Do you mind explaining yourself? We haven't got all night, you know."

Mycroft sighed. "Yes, of course." He scratched his eyebrow pensively then continued: "As I said before, we've had news. Information of the highest importance. News that we could be expecting an attack on London"

"An attack? What kind of attack?" Sherlock demanded, his pinky finger picking at his upper lip.

"We don't know. About two weeks ago, I received a note placed quite conspicuously on my desk that said, 'London must be warned.'" Mycroft paused dramatically whilst Sherlock and Irene calmly surveyed his features. When they continued to stare, he went on, "That's all it said. There was no signature, no address, no contact information. Nothing. And then a day later, Arthur Wellington was dead. You told me before, Sherlock, that you didn't know why he had been murdered. Well, I think I have an explanation for you. I didn't say it before, because I couldn't at the time, but Arthur Wellington worked for me. He and his brother were undercover agents in Moriarty's network. He would have known both Friedrich and Klaus Schreiber, not to mention he would have known Moriarty's plan...if he had one. I couldn't discuss it in the country, as I no longer know whom I can trust. So," Mycroft said, pointing to their surroundings, "here we are. One of the safest places I know outside of my office."

"You said Wellington and his brother were undercover agents in Moriarty's network. Only Arthur has died. What of Wellington's brother?" Sherlock asked, never once raising his voice or appearing frightened. "Where is Wellington's brother, Mycroft?"

Mycroft bit his lip and breathed one long, deep breath calmly through his nose. Looking into an abyss of worry. "We don't know. He's simply disappeared. We've raided his flat, issued a missing person's report, examined his Oyster and debit card records; cell phone records. There is nothing. He's vanished."

"If Wellington worked for you, then why didn't Miss Adler recognize him when she found him dead on his front steps?" Sherlock asked, turning to his wife who was muttering "Irene" under her breath after hearing her husband call her by her maiden name yet again.

"Sherlock, don't be stupid," Mycroft scolded. "Do you honestly think she would be in league with my other agents? I had a dead woman working for me; a dead woman whom the remainder of my agents presumed to be rightfully so. Why would I have her work with them?"

"Fair enough," Sherlock mumbled, scratching the back of his neck.

"Why wouldn't Wellington tell you of the supposed attack if he had knowledge of it? Why not just tell you instead of leaving a cryptic note on your desk?" Irene asked, leaning on the table with her right elbow.

"I...don't know for certain," Mycroft grudgingly admitted. "But I believe Moriarty was beginning to put a closer watch on him, and his integrity was compromised. Things...get complicated in my office when an agent is compromised. As early as two weeks before he was dead, I could see a change in his behavior. Something was...different about the man, and I began to suspect the worst. When the note arrived on my desk the day before he was dead, I knew it was from him and him alone. And I believe the same has happened to his brother. That's why he's simply vanished. I began to fear for...other plans of mine as well."

Mycroft glanced from Sherlock to Irene, and they both understood his meaning all too well. "So, I had to be sure; I had to discuss this with you, and I trust no one, least of all the people I work with. And most importantly," he said, his voice spontaneously increasing in volume, "I had to send you off on a honeymoon to accentuate the authenticity of your...relationship. To Moriarty and the rest of society, it looks like nothing more than a foolish pair of young people eager to...do some passionate love-making." Mycroft raised his eyebrows as the words left his tongue.

Sherlock made a coughing, regurgitating noise.

"And I was afraid of being indelicate," Irene said, raising her eyebrows at Mycroft's comment. He smiled an inhumanly dead smile.

Sherlock started massaging his temples. His brother's insinuations were beginning to make his brain swell. Oh God, the pain.

"Change the subject...now," Sherlock ordered, glaring at his brother through his newly developed (and completely placebic) splitting headache.

"Wouldn't you like me to?" Mycroft sarcastically asked, his voice descending into condescension and mystery. "But for the sake of time, I will keep this brief. Let you two get back to whatever it was you were doing," he added, waving his hand at the air frivolously.

"We have a problem, Sherlock. A national problem. You've already taken care of the final problem. Now it's time to tackle the national problem. You may want the help of a certain little sister while you're at it. I would advise returning to Sherrinford for a little chat after you fly back to London."

"Why don't you talk to her? She's your sister just as much as she is mine," Sherlock huffed. But he already knew the answer to that.

"You don't think I've tried?" Mycroft blurted. "She won't talk to anyone. Least of all me. Mummy and daddy have even tried coaxing her out of her corner. You're the only one she'll play for, Sherlock; you might as well try to get a few words out of her. Perhaps she'll open up. I suspect she knows more than she lets on."

"I've not been to Sherrinford in the last week. The last two weeks, to be precise. It's high time I paid our dear sister a visit," the detective mused, scratching his forehead.

"I agree," Mycroft replied. "You'll have plenty of opportunity. I suggest you had better go and pack your things for the flight home tomorrow. England mourns your absence, Sherlock." The Ice Man rose from his chair and straightened his coat.

"Tomorrow?" Sherlock asked, his bushy brows furrowing like two caterpillars trying to kiss. Irene was also quite confused. They were supposed to have a whole week in Iceland, and this was only day four.

"Oh, yes," Mycroft asserted. "I needed you both to go away on a honeymoon, and I also needed to discreetly discuss private government affairs with you outside of the country, and seeing as both the former and the latter have been done, there's really no need for you to stay any longer. I've already put you both on a flight home for tomorrow. It seems England requires it of you, brother mine...and" (and he nodded towards Irene who was acting as though she were being discriminated against), "Miss Adler."

Sherlock hummed a hmm from his side of the table as he stood to his feet. Irene looked up at him.

"Hmm what?" she asked, teasing him with the allusion to their previous conversation.

"Don't start with me," Sherlock chastised. She stuck her tongue in her cheek.

Mycroft sighed as if the fate of the world rested in his hands. But then again, regular stress was his job description, and Sherlock never lied when he called his brother "The British Government."

"I am weary, Sherlock," he said, massaging his head with his hand. "I feel quite like the prophesied king in the Hebrew scriptures: the government shall be upon his shoulders? Isn't that the way it went?" he paused a moment, examining the tip of his umbrella. "But I am no Messiah, Sherlock. And neither are you. It's about time you started remembering that."

"For the last time, Mycroft, I'm not a dragon slayer," Sherlock retorted.

"Oh, I've known that for ages," the elder mused. He smiled uncomfortably and added, "I'm just wondering when you'll start to realize it."

Sherlock's face was derisively begging for an encore. Mycroft grinned in his face like an idiot.

"Well then," Irene said, pulling on her coat. "If you boys are done bickering, I suggest we ought to be on our way. Come along, darling. We've much more important matters to take care of."

"Indeed, you do," Mycroft told her. "Enjoy your...last night on holiday. 'Make it count,' isn't that what they say?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Ohh," he moaned. "...and that is my brother's best attempt at well-wishing."

Irene came around to Sherlock's side of the table and took the arm he offered. Looking up at him, she asked, "Shall we go, then?"

"Evening, Mycroft. We'll see you tomorrow," he told his brother, turning his back on his brother and exiting the eerie dinner hall with his wife. The sight of the two of them sent Mycroft's heart flying in a blaze of pride and glory.

"Indeed, we will..." Mycroft called after them as they walked off together. "Have fun..." he added silently, but making sure he was loud enough for the couple to hear. And with his back to his brother, Sherlock smiled as he felt his wife's hand inside his arm.

...

"Yes, don't trouble with the details, Mycroft," Sherlock told his brother with his ear to his mobile. "I've already said we'll be there tomorrow, and we will. Why did you have to call me? I already said—"

Irene listened to him bicker with his brother. She was leaning against the freezing rails of the balcony, the sharp wind cutting her cheeks. The gale flew through her hair, chilling her scalp. She pulled her robe around her and looked out on the foamy waves of ice water exploding like fireworks as they hit the rocky shore.

Her bare feet were freezing on the concrete floor, but she didn't care how long she had to wait. He'd been on the phone for fifteen minutes, it had to be soon.

"No, I'm not—I'm fine. It's fine. Like I said before, spare me the details. Yes, I understand. Fine. Can I hang up now? I'm hanging up—I'm—goodbye, Mycroft. Bye bye."

His brother was still screaming precautions at him, but he promptly hung up, annoyed to death at being bossed around. He wasn't a child, and he didn't need to be ordered. He was Sherlock Holmes; he'd saved England before, and he could do it again.

He fell down into a chair, holding his head in his hands and scratching his forehead. He was tapping his foot on the floor, making his leg look like a machine-powered sewing needle.

"I'm going to make a pot of tea; do you want some?"

There was no answer. His foot stopped moving.

"Where are you?" he whispered, flying out of the chair and looking around for...

For what?

For his wife. That's what he was looking for.

Who he was looking for.

A cold wind blew through the little room, and Sherlock's curls buzzled around on his head. He turned toward the place from whence the icy breath came and found the open doors. And there she was: his wife.

It was a bit like before; when he had wanted to...discuss things with her on the balcony at The Langham. He had never formally apologized like he had wanted to. Why was she doing this? Why did she have to go and put herself there in between those two open doors, her lithe figure outlined by the moon's eerie light? What was she doing?

Without letting a single sound pass from between his chiseled lips, he walked onto the balcony and stood beside her. He knew what he wanted to say, but he didn't want to say it yet. She continued to gaze into the darkness as though he were invisible. He decided to do the same. Eventually someone would have to say something.

"Have we got everything?" he asked. They had packed for nearly an hour prior, and he had come to the conclusion that every item had been properly stowed. He might as well ask.

"Yes," she said, almost mournfully. She looked...tired. He said nothing.

"We ought to make it to the airport a few hours before our flight. It's bound to be busy as it usually is," he concluded, trying to begin a successful string of dialogue. She said nothing. Her thin lips were closed, and her blue eyes wandered around aimlessly studying the bitter night.

"Disappointing..." she mused.

"What is?"

"Having to go so early. I was just beginning to get comfortable."

Sherlock studied her face. Her eyes were not looking anywhere near his direction, and he was beginning to feel irksome. He wanted her to look at him. He was looking at her so hard that he decided his looking would make her look.

Eventually she turned toward him. His heart almost stopped when she finally did.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing."

"Oh dear. That's never a good thing."

"What isn't?"

"When Sherlock Holmes doesn't tell you what he's thinking. He's always bound to show off, especially when he's trying to impress. But when he doesn't tell you what's happening in that brain of his...well..." she paused, trying to decide what it meant.

"Well what?" he asked, patiently.

"He's hiding something. Aren't you, Mr. Holmes?"

Well this was a fine mess. He didn't want to tell her now, but seeing as she had already read his mind, did he really have a choice? Besides, how was Sherlock Holmes going to go about apologizing to a woman he...was married to?

There was silence from both of them as Sherlock merely stared into his wife's cobalt gaze. The only sound was the howling and whirling of the agitated air.

"That day...in Baker Street."

"Which one? There were several," she said. He couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic; her brow suggested otherwise. She was now leaning leisurely against the rail, determined to see this out. Her lips parted in legitimate concern.

"Don't pretend you don't remember it," he scoffed.

"Oh, we're discussing the loud one, then?"

"Yes...the loud one."

"What about it?"

He wasn't about to say "I'm sorry." He didn't do things like that. He...just didn't. Whyever not? Because! Because why? He was so close to literally slapping his face. The internal conflict was overwhelming. The Atlantic Ocean looked calmer than he felt.

"I just...erm—I remembered something—" he broke off, turning away from her, swallowing a cork in his throat and looking toward the sea. For the first time since he had entered the balcony, the left corner of her lip tipped upward.

"Well, I wanted to—erm..." he broke off again, this time putting his hand to his mouth as if he were about to vomit. He wiped his lips and wetted them instantly after. His other hand went to his bushy head. He looked up once as well...possibly to offer a prayer for Providential strength.

"I..." he began, his voice incredibly low and nearly inaudible. He almost had it out now. Only a few more words and it would be over. She moved closer so she could hear him better.

"I...I am sorry. I'm sorry."

A thousand bricks fell off of his chest, and he took a breath of air as though he were just coming up after spending an hour in the depths of the ocean. He looked at his wife, who looked like she was about to start laughing.

And laugh she did.

"Oh, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," she said, almost condescendingly, "for a man with such an intellect, your foolishness never ceases to amaze me. In case you've failed to notice, I am your wife. Is that not forgiveness enough for you?"

These words told him that he decided John had been right: he wouldn't understand her all the time. His eyes must have reflected his soul, for she seemed to read his confusion off his face.

"But if you want to hear me say it, then yes: I forgive you your stupidity."

He didn't smile, but gratitude was lifting his eyebrows. Irene recognized the expression all too well. Smirking playfully, she added: "But I hope you understand that I can't say there won't be certain...consequences. One must always learn one's lesson when one has been wicked."

"Is that so?"

"Yes it is..." she flirted, studying him with scrutiny.

Sherlock's eyes smiled for his lips. This was his wife, and whether he ever chose to admit it or not: he was...pleased that she was his own.

"Now tell me," she continued, coming closer to him, "how shall I punish you?"

Sherlock's eyebrows tipped upwards as though he were simply giving her her way out of pure exasperation and said, "I leave that entirely up to you."

"Much obliged, Mr. Holmes," she said, slowly letting her lips mold caressingly around his own. He returned the warm kiss, tangling his fingers in her long, brown tresses. She came away just barely. And Sherlock Holmes had a wedding ring on his finger this time. She smiled against his lips, an elven laugh delicately hovering in the back of her throat.

"Go on..." she muttered after a moment's silence. "Impress a girl."

And he kissed his wife full on her lips, pulling her gently into an embrace under the frigid Icelandic sky that was peppered with a million lonesome, distant stars.


	23. Affliction

"We've an hour to wait until the flight. I told you we didn't have to leave so early. But you don't listen to me, do you?" Irene complained, crossing her legs and sitting against the hard, uncomfortable backing of her seat. Her husband was next to her, texting his brother and utterly ignoring her existence.

"Oh, come off it," he replied, punching letters into the screen. "It won't take long. Didn't you bring a book, per my instructions?"

"I did, but per my own instructions. I choose my own books, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," she said, reaching into her carryon bag and drawing forth a copy of And Then There Were None. Sherlock snickered.

"Getting the itch?" he asked, his eyes surveying the glossy hard cover.

"I told you I like detective stories...and detectives...and I still do." She licked her finger and opened to the page where she had left off. "Don't mock me, Mr. Holmes."

"I don't mock," he asserted.

"Then don't say anything."

"Fine," he said, navigating his way to Twitter. He hadn't been on in a few months, but it wouldn't hurt to check anything...or tweet. He always would whenever he was in a good humor, as he was this morning.

The week in Iceland had done something to him...he was having a hard time admitting that he didn't really want it to end.

Day one had been so odd. There was no denying that. They had both been so incredibly bored; there were no puzzles to solve, Irene had been successful in catching Sherlock, so she was no longer "in pursuit." There was no John Watson to wrinkle his nose at them or shoo them out the door, and there was no Mycroft to make them do something that he thought they couldn't do. So for a long while, they just did nothing.

Finally, Irene drew back the curtains (which had been shut and carelessly left so) and emphatically declared, "Let's do something, for goodness sake. We're in Iceland, Mr. Holmes. We ought to do something about it."

And do something about it they did.

Sherlock had nearly gotten their heads blown off trying to measure the geothermal energy inside the Strokkur Geysir after normal daylight hours. It was an experiment for his blog, apparently. He had finally gotten an estimated measurement calculated mere moments before the ground began to vomit boiling water.

Irene dared him to try whale meat, the flavor of which nearly made him regurgitate into the nearest waste bin whilst she snickered hysterically. When he had the chance, he had his revenge and forced her to stomach a morsel of fermented shark. Forcing herself to chew, she managed to preserve her feminine dignity and laughed in his face after she had swallowed it.

"I don't see what's so bad about this," she quipped, to his immense irritation.

They ran around the island like two little children, Sherlock finding the volcanic rock formations fascinating and Irene wasting his money on the fashions of downtown Reykjavik.

And, of course, they stayed up late doing what married people do (and what both of them had equally wished for) in the dimly lit space of a candlelit room that smelled of cinnamon, lilac, and love (the smells of which were perpetrated by his eager wife).

Sherlock decided that this was what puzzled him most.

It seemed to frighten them both in the beginning. For the husband moreso, for he had never allowed himself the liberty to love someone as he found himself doing. It terrified him, for it seemed that he was opening the windows of his soul so someone could look in...so she could look in.

Naturally, it will be supposed that the wife was eager, determined, and quick to execute that which had been a longing of hers ever since she had laid eyes on him, and it would not be incorrect in supposing so. But it must be mentioned that when the anticipated time came, a strange reckoning passed before her mind, and she understood why she had hesitated for the smallest of moments before she had first kissed him.

She had never known this beyond a mere act. The physical collision of two people for the sake of self-gratification had been her financial stability and source of power for years: a routine...her bread and butter. But Sherlock Holmes was her husband; she his wife. She wasn't being paid to do this. Her love wasn't for hire. She actually felt something for the person in question. And she decided that she wanted to show him how she felt. Because it wasn't lust...it was...desire. It wasn't blind, mad, ridiculous passion with no point; there was a point, and that point was her love for him.

And what it did to her...what it did to her was another matter entirely.

It reminded her of something she had read in secondary school. The name of the book escaped her, but the words were applicable this time, despite them never having been so.

"What is a lizard compared to a stallion? Lust is a poor, weak, whimpering, whispering thing when compared with that richness and energy of desire which will arise after lust has been killed."

She smiled every time she thought of it.

Because it was evident that Love was at her spinning wheel; busily spinning two threads into one piece of cloth.

Similarly, the emotional depravity that had mastered Sherlock when Irene had "died" had seemingly returned to knock him over and haunt the hollows of his mind palace once more; only this time its magnitude was manifested in the form of ecstasy. It brought only laughter to his lips. Emotions were manifested equally between them, and for once the balance was equal. Their unending game of domination was forgotten; she saw no need for it. Indeed, neither of them did. In its place was a strangely gentle consummation and an energetic passion.

The detective had never been allowed the time to dwell on the clichés of romance. He had never particularly wanted to. But now he was one, for God's sake. Whether he was or not, he now felt that to say "the two become one" is no gross sentiment (as he had previously considered it), but merely the only weak, inadequate way that humans have to express and describe a complicated, amorous reality.

A reality where two people...can actually become one.

It fascinated him. Fascinated him to death.

Ugh. What was happening to him?

And it was just the same for her. It had been many years since anything had cleared her mind of monstrous memories and filled it solely with warranted, lawful happiness: happiness that, if shoved into the open, would never once have caused her embarrassment, shame, or extortion. But such was this time to Irene Adler. Or, as she became known legally: Irene Holmes. And while in Iceland, Mrs. Holmes unadulteratedly loved her clever detective with everything she had (she was allowed to and required to by the British government, it seemed), and each day they went out, she made him wear the funny hat.

Today was the fifth day; and they were flying home in less than an hour now. He wondered if it was wrong of him to have enjoyed it so much...to have enjoyed her so much. He glanced at her reading her book, daintily turning each page with a manicured hand. He grinned silently to himself. What a lucky man he was...to have such a clever woman.

His phone buzzed, interrupting his matrimonial reverie, which successfully managed to irk him. He was irked at himself, apparently.

But on the phone whirred, vibrating against his fingers. He glanced at the screen, and to his surprise, he found that it was Greg Lestrade who was calling him.

"Who is it, darling?" Irene asked, turning another page.

"Lestrade?" Sherlock answered, hoping his wife would figure it out.

"Hey, Sherlock. How's Iceland? How's the wife?" Greg asked, his voice indescribably perky. Sherlock wanted to vomit into the phone.

"Greg, don't try and do small talk. I know what you're calling about. What's happened? London up in flames the minute I step out of the country?"

"Well, we've had a break in," Greg replied.

Sherlock blinked twice. Then he laughed. "A break-in? I thought break-ins weren't your division?"

"Well, they're not, but this one was...important. National Gallery."

"The National Gallery? What's been stolen?" Sherlock demanded, his eyebrows kicking up in interest. Irene's eyes were inquisitive little creatures, and they looked like blue half-moons. She was doing her very best to eavesdrop on her husband's conversation.

"Nothing, actually," Lestrade continued, "But...well, we found a corpse. One of the security guards. Knife to the throat...again. Just like the last one."

"Spare me the details. I'm at the airport right now, and I'll look into it when I get back. It'll be nice to have a case to come home to," Sherlock blurted, quite resolute.

"We figured you'd say that. But before you go, I've got something else to tell you."

"What?" the detective asked.

"Well...seeing as it's just like the last one...we're quite sure it's...you know...him. Because he left another note."

Sherlock bit his lip.

"What kind of note?" he asked. Irene was leaning on his shoulder with her ear to the phone.

"Well...written with someone's blood. At least, that's what it looks like."

"And what does the note say, Greg?" he asked, his voice pressing and urgent.

Lestrade paused a moment before answering, and they could hear him swallow before he said: "It just says, 'Congratulations.' That's all."

Irene smiled.

"Ohh...it's time to play again, is it?" Sherlock asked under his breath. Then he started laughing to himself. Lestrade was a bit confused. "We'll be at the National Gallery as soon as we can, Greg."

"Yeah, that's great...erm...we'll see you in a few hours, then?"

"Yes, fine. See you then. Goodbye."

He turned to Irene, who was still pressed up against his phone.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked.

She tenderly kissed his angry lips and said, "You needed a nudge, darling. Getting rather slow, these days. Let's not forget you needed my help with the last one. Besides...I like it when you get cross with me."

He huffed, putting his phone into his pocket as she sank back into her chair. Pulling out his own book, he opened to the thirtieth page of The Man Who Was Thursday. Mycroft had recommended it, but Sherlock didn't see what was so clever about the novel. All the men were idiots, and if they weren't dead by the end, then they would be unemployed beggars. Either everyone was an anarchist, or no one was. Quite typical of eighteenth-century literature. However, he was convinced that something spectacular would happen when Sunday and Syme were reunited...which was an event most likely to occur at the novel's conclusion. And he had a sneaking suspicion that he knew who Sunday would end up being. It felt so hilariously obvious.

They sat side by side for twenty minutes, Irene trudging deeper into Agatha Christie, and Sherlock sighing aimlessly after every other page of his novel. He decided that he could have saved these fools from quite a bit of trouble if Chesterton had written him in as a character. But he mustn't chide them too harshly; they were Scotland Yard fellows, after all.

Sherlock's phone buzzed angrily inside his pocket for the second time that day.

"Who is it this time?" Irene wondered out loud, setting her book in her lap and glancing at the caller ID. It was an unrecognized number, but it was a British one. He answered it promptly.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" asked a delicately deep feminine voice from the other end. The voice sounded like its owner had been running or panting or crying. He couldn't tell which. It wasn't a young voice, but neither an old one: strong, deep, mature, but still delicate. Sherlock squinted. He had heard this voice before, and it was driving him mad that he couldn't place it.

"Yes, and who is this?"

"Lady Smallwood—Alicia Smallwood, Mr. Holmes. Your brother gave me your mobile in the event of an emergency in which I needed to reach you in his absence."

"And I suppose this is an emergency, then?"

"Oh dear God..." Lady Smallwood muttered, her repetitive breaths shuddered against his ear, and Sherlock's face grew pale. "It's more than an emergency, Mr. Holmes. Are you sitting down?" She sniffled.

"Yes, I—I am. What—what's happened, Lady Smallwood?"

He was trying to stay calm. His breathing was irregular, but he struggled to keep his voice steady. The woman on the other line sounded frantic, and he didn't want to upset her further.

"Oh, dear God..." she whispered again. "It's...your brother, Mr. Holmes. It's Mycroft. He's...he's just been taken to the hospital. He wasn't breathing...and there was blood...lots of blood..." she said, sighing in despair. "...blood all over his vest...and..."

Sherlock thought his heart had stopped. There was a moment of silence in which he could hardly hear himself breathe. Irene stared at him; her eyes wide in horror. Clutching the phone, he smushed it into the side of his face, as if doing so could make the woman keep talking. His lips were ajar, his tongue had gone dry, and his stomach was in the back of his mouth. His heart was banging noisily against his ribcage.

"What exactly are you saying? What's happened?" he asked, each word painful and excruciatingly difficult to form. He closed his eyes as he heard her inhale in preparation to speak.

Her voice was hardly a whisper as she said, "Mycroft's been shot."

The phone fell from his hands, clattering onto the floor.

He put his hand to his mouth. His forehead started sweating. His heart was louder than anything and everything. Blood was pounding inside his head, his fingers were shaking, and his insides rattled around inside him like a moth caught in a jar. He wiped his face, ran his hands over his head, and was breathing abnormally loud. He was coughing now, too. His head was spinning: the ground was up, the ceiling was down, his legs were planks of jelly.

"No..." he whispered to himself, over and over. "No, no, no, no..."

He walked over toward the window to stand in silence, his hand on his head. He had to control his breathing. He had to slow his heart. He needed to calm down. He leaned against the glass, pressing his forehead to the cold surface. He closed his eyes, muttering words under his breath. Perhaps he was calming himself. Perhaps he was praying. Who knew; perhaps he was defying logic and telepathically wishing his brother back to health.

Irene had since picked up the phone he had dropped and was speaking with Lady Smallwood. He couldn't even hear what she was saying. All he knew was that his brother was in an ambulance somewhere...not breathing...bleeding...possibly dying.

Dying...Mycroft...

Mycroft was dying?

"Mr. Holmes? Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?"

He had his eyes closed; he wanted to go.

"Sherlock, look at me. Look at me."

He wanted to close his ears, and he wanted to go...now.

"Listen to me! For God's sake, Sherlock!"

He needed to go. He was almost there.

His wife's hand was on his shoulder, massaging it. She tried to pull him from the window, but he didn't move. She scratched his head consolingly, but all he wanted was to be alone. Of all the places, he wanted to be there: alone. This was one of those times when alone was going to protect him.

"Mr. Holmes?" she asked, pressing on a sore spot in his neck.

"Can you just stop?" he responded furiously, waving his hands to shoo her hands away from his face as if they were buzzing flies.

"Are you alright—"

"Shut up—just shut up!" he whirled around, facing her. His face was frantic: like he had barely escaped from a tornado's vortex. His eyes were wide, and she could hear the panic in his voice. Nevertheless, she was angry.

"How dare you—"

"Just please...shut up for one moment."

"No, you listen to me, Mr. Holmes," she practically spat into his face.

"You don't understand. You cannot understand this."

"Understand what?" she asked.

He looked at her solemnly. He didn't mean to wound her, but the heat of the moment had frustrated him so. Cupping the side of her face in his hand, he said, "I need to go to my mind palace. Please. Let me go to my mind palace. I'll come out before the plane leaves, but for God's sake, just let me go to my mind palace."

Irene's eyes were now sporting morning dew drops, and she looked so terribly vexed.

"Fine."

She turned away from him and went to sit in a chair facing the open window so as to watch the planes come in. Her hand was over her mouth; Sherlock had never seen her so distraught. He knew that if he was anywhere near a good husband he would go and apologize. But then again...he was something of an exception in that area.

He had his brother to think of. He had to find him...now. He had to hear his voice. Sherlock Holmes needed his brother. He was no longer afraid to admit it, and the thought of Mycroft Holmes lying unconscious on a stretcher with blood spurting from his chest put a ball in his throat and sent prickles up his back.

So he closed his eyes.

He went into his mind palace.

Running like mad through the many rooms, calling the name of one of the only people in the world who had ever meant anything to him.

"Sherlock, you okay?" a voice asked. John Watson was here. He was at a desk typing on his computer. But Sherlock ran past him, leaving him bewildered.

"You need to breathe, Sherlock. Breathe," a commanding voice told him as he turned a corner. It was Molly Hooper in her white coat, latex gloves, and pony tail. He paused a moment in front of her, but ran past, nearly tripping as he went by her.

"What's wrong with you?" another voice asked, and Sherlock saw Anderson coming out of a room, his wide eyes popping out of his hairy face. Sherlock rolled his eyes and barreled past him without even thinking.

"Fancy a cuppa, dear?" asked a squeaky, motherly someone. Mrs. Hudson had a cup and saucer in her hand, smiling in a concerned sort of way at Sherlock.

"Erm—not now, Mrs. Hudson, but thank you!" he shouted in a tizzy of excitement. She looked flustered just standing there.

He kept running: running through halls, rooms, memories, fears, terrors, nightmares, and dreams. He saw Musgrave Manor up in flames. He saw himself searching for Redbeard...for Victor. He saw the graves with the fake dates on them. He saw himself.

He was close now.

Peeking into the next room, he stopped abruptly. He didn't hear a voice. He didn't see anyone's figure. But this was the one. He had made it. He had finally found his brother. Maybe his eyes were wet when they recognized what was happening.

But there he was.

He had found what he was looking for.

He had found Mycroft.


	24. Brothers in Arms

"Mummy! Mummy!"

Sherlock Holmes ran down the hall, his little feet pounding against the carpeted floor. His round, cheeky face had shiny lines of water streaming down from his eyes, and his mouth was open as he ran.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, come back!"

The boy ran faster, hoping his fat brother would give up chasing him and leave him alone. He wanted to be alone, of all the places: alone was what he had. Alone protected him.

"Sherlock, shut up!" Mycroft was screaming from behind. He waddled after him like an overstuffed penguin, his grubby fists clenched.

"Mummy! Mummy!"

Sherlock could hear his mother cooking downstairs. He passed Eurus on the stairs as he ran. She laughed at him.

"Come and play with me, Sherlock..."

"Not now!" he screamed at his sister, frightening her and sending a tremor through the floor that nearly collapsed her tower of blocks.

Sherlock's mother was in sight. He reached the bottom of the stairs making a beeline for the kitchen.

"Oh mummy!" he cried, running to his mother's arms and sobbing into her flour-dusted apron. In an instant her arms were around his little body and squeezing his head of wild curls.

"Sherlock, dearie...what's the matter?" she asked, holding him to her chest.

"He's being ridiculous, Mother!" Mycroft shouted. He had barely made it down the stairs, and his pudgy hands were molded onto his hips. He glowered at his brother, but looked a little nervous in the presence of his mother.

"No, I'm not! I'm not being ridiculous!" the younger cried violently. "He called me stupid, mummy! Stupid! He said I was a stupid little boy, and that I'm an embarrassment. I hate him! I hate him!" Sherlock screamed, sobbing harder into his mother's apron. The flour was sticking to his glistening face.

"Mycroft!" Mummy scolded, her mouth ajar as she looked at her oldest son. "How dare you speak to your brother that way! What's the matter with you?"

"A number of things, I should imagine, mother. Would you like me to explain them for you?" Mycroft asked, his sarcastic intellect shining through his feelings of intimidation.

"That's quite enough, Mycroft!" she rebuked, massaging Sherlock's head. He was still wailing into her apron.

Mycroft nibbled a fat finger and looked nervously at the floor.

Eurus came down to see what all the commotion was about.

"What's Mycroft done now, Mummy?" she asked, dragging a toy train by a cord. Its wooden wheels were painfully loud against the hard floor.

"Oh, shut up, Eurus," Mycroft snapped, turning to his sister contemptuously. Her eyes widened, but she only stared at him as if "shut up" was the politest thing he could have said.

"Mycroft, hold your tongue!" Mummy scolded, clutching Sherlock closer to herself. "Do you see what you've done to your brother? You've hurt his feelings! Apologize, Mycroft, and apologize now!"

"Feelings are bound to be hurt once in a while, Mummy. You can't expect everyone to apologize whenever they are. Besides, why should I apologize for telling the truth? He is stupid, he is an embarrassment. Isn't it time he knew?"

Mrs. Holmes was enraged at her son, and she was instantly regretting ever having permitting them to be assessed psychiatrically. He had developed quite a big head since he had received his results the week before.

"Mycroft Holmes, not one more word from you! I never asked for your opinion!"

"Well it's about time someone did; or better yet, ask the 'era-defining genius,'" he said, mocking the examiner's remarks about Eurus's mental abilities.

"Eurus is smarter than you, and it's about time you knew that, Mycroft!" Sherlock yelled. His mother tried to shush him, but the boy was unstoppable when his emotions were enraged. "You're such a fat and ugly brother, and I wish you'd never been born!" He made a lunge at his brother, trying to tackle him, but Mycroft only stepped back as Mrs. Holmes restrained Sherlock. Mycroft was laughing now.

"On the sofa, now; both of you! I'm tired of your constant bickering, and we are putting an end to it immediately. Now, Mycroft; on the sofa! Sherlock, go sit with your brother."

"No, don't make me, Mummy!" Sherlock retorted, clinging to his mother desperately.

"Now, Sherlock. Don't make me order you!"

The two Holmes boys went to the sofa and sat upon it. Mycroft sat in one corner, and Sherlock sat in the other, squeezing as much as he could into the side cushions to maximize the distance between him and his brother.

"My boys..." Mrs. Holmes cooed, studying both of them with fatigue addling her already weary eyes. "What shall I ever do with you?"

"There is a boarding school, if that's what you're asking," Mycroft snidely remarked.

"Shut up, Mycroft!" Sherlock sneered, clenching his fists. His little eyes were spitting daggers at his brother.

"Enough! Both of you!" Mrs. Holmes yelled, reaching her maximum number of decibels. "You both are such special, intelligent boys. Have you any idea how much your father and I love you both? You are each of you remarkably intelligent, and there is never a day I regret being your mother."

Sherlock beamed. Mycroft pouted.

Eurus was sailing a toy boat across the Persian rug under the dinner table.

"You are brothers. Do you understand that?" Mrs. Holmes asked, "Brothers. Do you know what that means?"

"It means we were born from the same biological mother and father, each of us possessing different genetic aspects of both," Mycroft drawled, as if he were reciting his answer from a textbook.

"It is so much more than that, Mycroft Holmes!" Mrs. Holmes scolded, her eyes brimming with tears. Sherlock wanted to hug her. Mycroft wanted to go and read.

"Mycroft, you owe your brother a profuse apology. No one in this world is stupid or an embarrassment. Only they can choose to label themselves or accept the label society gives them. Is that understood? You have no right to call your brother stupid or an embarrassment, for he is neither! Sherlock Holmes will do great things, one day. And so will you, Mycroft. And you, Eurus, my darling."

Eurus looked up from her toy boat and stared at her mother. Mrs. Holmes smiled, but the daughter continued to sail her boat further away from the scene.

"Now Mycroft, apologize to your brother."

"Oh what's the use, Mummy?"

"Mycroft!"

"Fine. Sorry, Sherlock."

Mrs. Holmes looked at her youngest son. She nodded encouragingly. "Forgive your brother, Sherlock."

"Why?"

Mrs. Holmes went toward her little boy, holding her hands in his as she came to him. Looking into his funny, heterochromic eyes, she smiled.

"Mycroft is your brother, Sherlock. You do more together than you appreciate, you know. Think about this for me, would you? How would you like it if Mycroft was gone when you woke up tomorrow? How would that make you feel?"

Sherlock's little face grew red.

"I'd like it fine! I wish he was dead! I wish he was never my brother at all!"

"You don't mean that, darling," Mrs. Holmes said, her face growing red in exasperation. Above all else, she did not want discord between her children, and much less unadulterated hate. She looked at Mycroft, who looked unconcerned and bored.

"Yes, I do! I do, I do mean it!" Sherlock asserted, slamming his fists into his legs at each "I do." His eyes were little waterfalls, and his nose was equally moist. He sniffled as he sobbed, rubbing his eyes madly and smearing the substances all over his face.

.........

Sherlock couldn't remember what his mother had said to him next. He couldn't even remember what he had said next. Or what Mycroft might have said next. So the scene just froze. Everyone and everything was like a picture in front of his face, and he reached out to touch it, as though it were only a paused film on a screen.

He grasped at air.

His heart was bleeding. His eyes were blinking back tears he didn't know he had for Mycroft. He opened his mouth to say something to his six-year-old self, but no words came. Only dry, hideous breaths. He started coughing to try and clear out his throat, but it kept clogging up with something like...what was that?

"Evening, brother mine," Mycroft's voice interrupted him from behind. Slowly but surely, the lanky figure was beside him, leaning on its umbrella.

"Did you really mean it...Sherlock? All those many years ago? Did you really wish that I was dead?"

Sherlock's mouth was still and in shock, only staring at this ghost of his brother in horrified silence. There was a moment in which he wanted to spring upon the ghost to hug it, but he knew if he did, this Mycroft...this memory...it would only disappear from his mind's eye.

Mycroft continued, "Because if you did, it seems you've finally gotten your wish. I could be dying somewhere. I might already be dead. Congratulations. I hope I have made you...

"...happy."

Sherlock took a step closer to his brother.

"No...oh God knows, Mycroft. God knows. I don't...I don't..." (his voice started cracking) "want you to die," he croaked, his eyes growing foggy with mist.

"You just..." Sherlock said, his voice growing more desperate. But then, it slowly returned to its deep, baritone command: "You can't. I—I won't let you."

He heaved a sigh, running his hand through his hair as Mycroft simply looked on in silence: staring at his little brother childishly decide that he would not let him die.

"No, Mycroft. You won't die. You can't die."

"Oh, Sherlock," the elder droned, his voice wonderfully condescending as it always was. "I'm not lonely," he said, tapping his umbrella on the floor. As it struck the cold floor, the sound echoed and the scene from their childhood disappeared.

Sherlock looked at his brother's cold, unfeeling eyes and disapproving, bent mouth. Were the eyes sparkling? Just maybe? With the little light that was coming into the room? Was the mouth softening? Perhaps serenity was soothing those scowling lips?

Sound came forth from them. Mycroft spoke.

"But I miss you, brother mine."

The fog returned to Sherlock's eyes. He blinked to push it back, but a couple of drops spilled out without his wanting them to. Mycroft smiled.

"Come home, Sherlock. But, please remember...no flowers at the funeral. My request."

He turned his back upon Sherlock and began to walk away into the blackness of the mind palace.

"Do hurry home, Sherlock," Mycroft called out, swinging his umbrella as he disappeared.

"No!" Sherlock cried, but all the while knowing that he couldn't stop his brother.

"Mycroft, no!" Sherlock screamed again, wiping his face furiously. "Wait! Don't—!"

But he was gone. The blackness had enveloped him, and Sherlock lost sight of his brother dear. He was panting as if he had just finished climbing a mountain, and he furiously, frantically, wiped his wet cheeks.

The floor began to move beneath his feet; the dark room started to turn slowly. Sherlock tried to steady his balance. He toppled over, falling endlessly into a black pit full of emptiness: he searched for Mycroft, but he was nowhere to be seen. He let himself fall. He closed his eyes. He opened the hands he had clenched, and he exhaled.

He could hear Moriarty laughing somewhere from the inside of this black hole. Giggling. "Ordinary, Sherlock...so, so ordinary..."

Sherlock started gasping for air as he continued to fall, senselessly into the darkness.

"You can't save him, Sherlock...not this time. You can't point the gun at yourself...because I've done it for you..." Moriarty droned on. The echoes grew louder, and Sherlock could hear him calling out his name.

"Time to come out, Sherlock! Time to play..." he said, his voice escalating as though he had been singing. "Time to play..." he said again, in the same frightening singsong way.

"Sherlock...daddy wants to play..." he kept on singing.

Sherlock was quite nauseated and dizzy at hearing the sound of his name repeated as if it were a profanity. It just went on echoing within the walls of his troubled head.

"Sherlock...Sherlock...Sherlock!"

Then, without warning, his eyes shot open. The blackness had gone; instead was bright, blinding light shining into his face. He was back at the airport in Reykjavik, the bright sun blazing through the window. Still sitting in his chair, his eyes were on fire with the sunlight streaming through the window.

And he understood why everything was so bright and what had happened to him...because he realized where he had been: the valley of the shadow of death.

He mirrored the traumatized child who awakens from a nightmare. Sweating a bit, his chest rising and falling vigorously: it was all the same. Only when he came out of it, he realized that his brother was still shot. He closed his eyes and settled back into his chair.

Irene was sitting next to him and reading her book. As he opened his eyes and began breathing frantically, she glanced at him.

"You're awake. I wasn't sure you'd come out on time; the plane's boarding," she said, slowly and gently. She put her hand on his, stroking it as she did so. "Are...are you alright?"

"I need to get to Mycroft. I need to see him. I need to see him now."

"I know," she said, as though none of this were news to her. It really wasn't, after all. "Let's go; the plane's boarding. We'll get to the hospital as soon as we land, darling. I've had a call from Lady Smallwood not two minutes ago; he's just been admitted into the hospital and taken into surgery. Should I tell Doctor Watson?"

"Yes, do. John deserves to know."

"Of course," she continued, "I've already told him."

"I knew that."

"That's good. At least we are still on the same page."

He said nothing as she slipped her arm around him. He felt something like a blanket pass over his throbbing insides. For once over the course of the last few days, she was lowering and calming his heart rate. She looked up at him; she didn't smile, but her eyes were still. Still enough to allow him something to observe that wasn't unsure. Her eyes existed: firm, secure, and intoxicating. As long as they did, he had something that wouldn't change.

He remembered his fit of frightened, unaccountable anger before he had slipped into his mind palace. The eyes he was looking into reminded him of it. Shame tickled his stomach.

"I'm sorry, I—" he began.

But she put a finger to his lips to shush him.

"Hush, darling. I know."

He kissed her brow and put an arm around her waist, and together they walked through the gate to board the plane to London...the plane to Mycroft.


	25. Donovan and the Dominatrix

Sherlock was standing over the body of a dead man in one of the many portrait rooms in The National Gallery. Blood was on the floor, on the man’s jacket, and all over his slit, muscly neck. Nevertheless, Sherlock hadn’t even stooped down to examine the body before he began rolling his eyes and deciding that he should have gone to the hospital first.

When the plane landed only an hour earlier, Sherlock found himself remarkably calmer than he had been in the airport at Reykjavik. He seemed to have been able to get a handle on his emotions and cleared his mind of the conclusions that he had so rashly jumped to.

After stepping off the plane and into the organized maze that was London Heathrow Airport, they had been presented with two options: go to the hospital or go to the crime scene. Sherlock chose the latter, since Mycroft was still in surgery at the time, and they weren’t admitting anyone in to see him. Although he didn’t confess to this, he and Irene both knew that he wouldn’t have wanted to go to the crime scene after seeing Mycroft. He most likely wouldn’t have wanted to do anything after seeing Mycroft…except maybe go to hibernate in his mind palace.

But now, being here at the crime scene and discovering that the Scotland Yard was suffering from its usual case of chronic idiocy, Sherlock was regretting every effort put into having come here at all.

With a huff of exasperation and a roll of his agitated eyes, he remarked, “It’s times like these when the Scotland Yard really outdoes themselves.”

John was presently standing next to the detective; his lips pursed. He knew Sherlock’s remark was probably not intended as a compliment.

Irene was on the floor, kneeling beside a pool of blood. She was studying the man’s face with narrowed eyes and a furrowed brow. She smirked in amusement as she too deduced what her husband had done only seconds before. She looked at him to see if he understood; his eyes sharpened in recognition. Yes…he knew.

Anderson was present and was wearing his blue coat which covered every inch of body he had (apart from his head). He was looking almost celebratory at Sherlock’s praise that they were “outdoing themselves.”

John winced as he braced himself for verbal impact.

“In what way?” Anderson asked, his voice the same as always. He never failed to sound like a duck with a sinus infection.

“Always managing to outdo the level of stupidity it is known for,” Sherlock huffed, his coat swishing behind him as he abruptly turned to the forensic scientist. “Anderson, you’re on forensics, aren’t you?”

Anderson looked as though Sherlock was staring through his clothing. He hesitated before meeting the detective’s eye, but he knew it meant trouble. Irene cleared her throat rather loudly, and it sounded to everyone in the room that she was prompting him to speak.

“Yes…” Anderson quietly snarled.

“Then why have you failed to notice the presence of fake blood on the man’s neck?”

Anderson was quiet for what seemed to be the most mortifying eternity of his career as Sherlock’s punching bag.

“F-fake blood?” he stammered as he wrung his hands compulsively.

“Yes, Anderson. Fake blood.”

There was silence across the room. Anderson had managed to embarrass himself yet again in front of Sherlock’s genius.

“I’m afraid it’s quite fake,” Irene said. “But so is this…”

Retrieving a handkerchief from her pocket, she thoroughly wiped the dead man’s face. What had been a fresh lifeless face moments before turned into the face of a corpse already beginning to rot with death. The white kerchief she had used was now stained with cosmetics, and Irene looked pleased with herself.

“This man has spent ages trying to freshen himself up. I ought to know; these cosmetics were applied only a few hours ago, it seems. It was a really well-done attempt to disguise the fact that he’s been dead for a while. The way the lights don’t gleam off his skin suggests that he’s put on a bit of concealer. The light would be shining off his face, since the natural oils in the skin would make the forehead glossy. And the bits of dry skin clumped up around the hairline here and here suggest that he’s been properly powdered pretty recently. Why would a dead man go to so much trouble? Well…remove the cosmetics, and we observe. He’s been dead for quite some time.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock declared. “And given those deductions, this is definitely fake blood. This man’s been dead for weeks. He’s been livened up with a bit of color, as is evident from the state of my wife’s handkerchief, but that’s about all, really. The blood on his neck has been put there only recently. Very recently, I should think. That’s why it’s so red. If he was killed when I think he was, there shouldn’t be any blood on him at all. At least, not such fresh blood. This didn’t just happen…but it was made to look like it.”

“And when exactly do you think he was killed?” Lestrade asked, sauntering up to the detective with his hands deep in his pockets. He was a little embarrassed at having once again been bested by Sherlock’s arrogant wit.

“Two weeks ago,” the detective responded. “You can already see bits of goo where maggots were picked off of his skin here and here,” he said, pointing to the man’s eyes and corners of his lips. “There’s already an odor, concealed, it would seem, by baking soda and vinegar,” he added, sniffing the man’s face and wrinkling his nose inquisitively. “Most certainly baking soda and vinegar. Seems to me he’s been dead since we found the man on Sterne street murdered on his doorstep. Maybe even a few days earlier. Same method, too. You see the lines around his neck? Strangulation first, then the knife.” He paused a moment, biting his thumb. “But why? Why would they do that? Strangled first…and the strangulation marks look as old as the corpse. But the knife…the flesh has been cut only recently,” he whispered to himself.

Abruptly, he continued, “Well, they’re definitely linked.” He stooped down to thrust his finger into the “blood” then licked it. He spat onto the floor. “Yes, it’s definitely cosmetic blood.”

“Well, if we’ve got the one who did the first murder in custody, doesn’t that mean we have the murderer who killed his man?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock stopped to think. “Yes and no. Perhaps. Possibly. Has anyone gotten this man’s name? Was there a…name tag of some kind on him when you found him? Any identification?” he asked, addressing the whole lot of the stupid police force.

“Yeah, there was an ID. We had it taken back for evidence though. But the name on it was ‘John Wellington.’ Early thirties—”

“No, no, no, no; go back,” Sherlock cut in, holding his hand up and pausing to think. “You said his name is Wellington?”

“Yeah, John Wellington. Early thirties, diabetic—oh…” Lestrade stopped short. Sherlock rolled his eyes; had the realization only just come? Scotland Yard fellows…it was Syme and his companions come to life.

“This is the brother, then,” Sherlock deduced. “I’m positive. This man is Arthur Wellington’s brother who went missing. This is him. He was killed at exactly the same time as his brother…maybe earlier. Maybe Arthur knew of his brother’s death and retaliation is what ended his life. Ohhh, Moriarty has set his pieces. This is about to get very interesting,” Sherlock said, his lips spreading into a little grin as his eyes gleamed with a thirst for mind games.

“Sherlock,” John said, clearing his throat and shooting the detective a warning glance.

Oh right. Smiling. Don’t smile over dead bodies.

“And the significance of the spot in which he left the message proves it, doesn’t it, Mr. Holmes?” Irene inquired, referencing Moriarty’s strategy. She turned to the bloody message written on the wall beneath one of the paintings; the one word was simply “Congratulations.”

“Yes, obviously,” Sherlock said under his breath, addressing his wife. He was almost irritated that she had said it first. He’d probably noticed it first…probably. Nevertheless, he took this opportunity to elaborate for her.

“The message is written beneath the painting of the First Duke of Wellington. Again, Wellington. The two murders are definitely linked.”

“Clever work, you two!” Lestrade chirped, admiring the pair as if they were a mural that he had just finished painting. Sherlock rolled his eyes whilst Irene flashed a flattered smile at Lestrade.

Anderson had since sunk into the shadows, fumbling with the gloves on his fingers and looking very ashamed. Good riddance, Sherlock thought to himself, chuckling.

“Got a wife now, have you, freak? That’s not gonna end well…” Sally Donovan jeered, striding up to the couple with her hips relaxed, arms crossed, lips pursed, and her eyes roving over the both of them. Her Yorkshire accent was just as sharp and nauseating as usual.

“Oh, shove off,” John groaned. “Since when have you cared about Sherlock’s love life?”

“Since it looked like he didn’t have one, that’s when,” Donovan replied, her annoyance triggered. Her eyebrows might as well have been deadweights; they were so narrowed it looked like they were trying to crush her eyeballs.

Sherlock almost gagged when John mentioned his “love life.” Of all the things, John…why did you have to go and mention a “love life?” I don’t have a love life, for God’s sake. I’m married…there is a difference. Somewhere.

“Oh, grow up, Sally. I have bigger problems,” Sherlock scolded, waving his hand at her and rolling his eyes. He had a brother in the hospital, and he needed to see him. He was trying to make this as quick as he could. But these idiots were wasting too much of his time.

“Yeah? Well I’m not the only one with problems,” Donovan snapped in response, taking her hands from her chest and putting them on her hips. She laughed casually…with disgusting, unwarranted superiority.

“I don’t think anyone asked you,” Irene said, her calm voice disguising a substantial amount of venom boiling angrily beneath the surface. She eyed the woman with contempt. Donovan’s glare made it look like she was daring Irene to come fight her. Sherlock checked himself; why was he feeling nervous?

“Well, it’s not everyday freak decides he wants to marry someone, is it? And you know what I think? I don’t know who’s made more of a mistake. Him or you.” Donovan had since taken a few steps closer, and Irene had done the same. Although Donovan was taller than her, the expression on Irene’s face scarcely allowed anyone the permission to observe the difference in height. She could almost slap the woman.

“Oh, I pity you, then,” Irene hissed. “You have no idea how lovely it is. If you knew just how well he kisses…well…you’d wish you were me. And I might add—”

“Alright, that’s quite enough,” Sherlock barked, embarrassed at the blatantly suggestive comment.

“No, I don’t think so. I’m not quite finished, darling,” Irene said. “I might add…well, never you mind that. But for future,” she continued, addressing Donovan, “I would appreciate it if you would refrain from using derogatory terms to address my husband. For your sake, I suggest you address him with respect. Would you mind, dear girl?” she asked. Donovan scowled.

“And why would I care to listen to freak’s wife?”

“Oh, I don’t know. But I do know that there are most likely dozens of people who would be a bit…surprised if they knew you were still having an affair with er…Anderson, was it?” she said, directing her attention at Anderson who by this time was looking like a blown up pufferfish with eyes bulging out of his face.

She turned her gaze back to Donovan who was steaming with rage and mortification.

“I would put some stronger perfume on next time if I were you,” Irene said, nearly winking at her. Donovan’s hands had since rolled up into angry fists, and her agitation showed in the image of her bulging nose.

Lestrade’s eyes were almost falling out of his face. Nearly everyone had stopped working to watch the two women show down.

“Are we clear, then?” Irene asked, her hands on her hips and staring (upwards) into Donovan’s face.

Donovan’s eyes widened for a moment, cleared her throat (which sounded a lot like gravel in a blender) and then spat, “Crystal.”

“Much obliged, sergeant,” Irene said, slowly letting her lips form a triumphant smile.

Sherlock coughed, unsuccessfully trying to stifle the smallest of laughs. Why was he smirking against his will?

“Well,” he said. “We’d better be off.” He turned to walk out of the gallery, confident his wife would follow. His face was beaming.

“I agree. Right behind you, darling,” Irene said, throwing one last evil eye at Donovan before turning her back.

“John? You ready?” Sherlock asked, realizing that his friend wasn’t behind him. John was still staring into some bottomless abyss; he looked in shock. But hearing Sherlock’s voice seemed to bring him back to reality.

“Yeah, sorry, right; let’s go,” John said, walking swiftly beside Sherlock.

The detective, with Irene at his right and John at his left, strode out of the room and toward the elevators. John was smiling: this scenario was beginning to remind him of that one time when Mary had been alive; only this time, it was Sherlock and his wife solving cases with John. The only thing they lacked was a baby and a dog.

“Any news, though? About Mycroft? Just wondering if he’s…pulled through?” Lestrade asked, jogging alongside them to catch up.

“None whatsoever,” Sherlock said. “Lady Smallwood is at the hospital now; he’s still in surgery, last we heard.”

“Well, just give me an update when you can. It’s all over the news, you know. England is in an uproar. Let me know, alright?” Lestrade asked, rubbing his wrinkled brow.

“Of course, Greg. We’ll see you later,” John said as they smashed through a pair of glass double doors and left Lestrade standing aimlessly behind.

Leaving the National Gallery, Sherlock, Irene, and John found themselves in the center of Trafalgar Square. Sherlock took out his mobile to call Lady Smallwood, but he had a new message:

Late to the game. Taking your time, are we? – JMx

“Ugh, shut uuup!” Sherlock seethed out loud, holding his phone in his hands.

John’s eyebrows threaded together in worry. “What’s wrong now, then?”

“Moriarty. He’s just messaged me. This is exactly what he wanted. I told my brother we shouldn’t have left the country. I leave and what happens? God have mercy.”

Sherlock stopped speaking. John and Irene just stared at him apprehensively, like he was a bomb about to detonate. He shook his head as if clearing cobwebs out of his brain.

“We need to get to the hospital,” he said, as if trying to erase the previous moment of spontaneous exasperation.

“I was…just about to say that,” John said, and he hailed a cab that was just passing by.


	26. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes

Sherlock was almost running down the corridors of the hospital. He could tell that he was going too fast. His wife's heels sounded like a metronome set to maestoso, and John was breathing hard to keep up with him.

The only thing that was in his mind was Mycroft.

Mycroft.

Every image before his face was one of his brother. His brother lying on a stretcher, blood on his chest; his brother the fat little boy eating a meat pie; his brother the protective, standoffish, annoying, paranoidly watchful, and problematic British Government.

It was Mycroft at every thought.

So he kept on nearly running. And despite the overwhelming urge telling him to stop making a fool of himself and slow down, he couldn't allow himself to do so. He was almost to Mycroft...Mycroft was what mattered now, not his dignity.

He was amazed—nay, shocked—that he had actually let that thought float before his mind's eye.

When they finally came to the room he had been assigned, Lady Smallwood was sitting outside, her legs crossed and hands on her knees. She is such a lady, Sherlock thought to himself. Seeing them, she rose from her chair with the dignity of a duchess and walked to meet them.

"Mr. Holmes," she said, clasping Sherlock's hands in her own. "It's so good to see you."

"How is he? How's Mycroft? Has the surgery gone alright?"

"Well, it has..." she said. Her voice dwindled as she turned to look at the closed door of Mycroft's room. She watched it as though it were the only thing between them and some ravenous beast.

"But I'm afraid he's slipped into a coma. At his age...they don't know how long it will last. Or if...if he will ever come out."

Sherlock's mouth had gone dry again. Calm. Calm. He repeated it to himself over and over again, regulating his breathing and reassuring himself.

Nevertheless, there was one question on his mind that had stuck there since he had first heard the news. He found the voice to ask it.

"Where...where was he shot? Exactly?"

"Well, that's something I wanted to tell you. It seems that—"

But Lady Smallwood didn't finish, for at that moment Sherlock's parents emerged from around a corner, hurrying quickly towards the throng assembled in front of Mycroft's room. Sherlock's heart sank. Of course, he was glad that his parents had come to see his mortally wounded brother, but...he was married and had his wife with him...and he hadn't exactly bothered to tell them yet.

Oh, dear Lord.

"Oh, Sherlock! You're here," his mother cried, her face wet and running to hug her youngest son. Sherlock embraced her awkwardly. His father was equally distressed, but he shook John's hand to show gratitude for the support.

"Of course. He's just come out of surgery, mummy," Sherlock said, patting his mother's head. "They say he's slipped into a coma."

Irene whispered to him, "How many grown men call their mother 'mummy'?"

"Shut up," he hissed.

"Ohh, a coma?" Mrs. Holmes asked, holding her sons's forearms in a vice. He nodded. "Oh, Sherlock, we cannot lose Myc. We simply cannot!" she said, starting to sob into his coat. He once again patted her head, but wished that she would empty herself elsewhere...into a hanky, at least.

Irene coughed into her fist. Sherlock caught her eye and implicitly shook his head at her, practically commanding her to shut up and keep her presence unknown. She only winked.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Sherlock," Mrs. Holmes apologized. "I'd no idea you had someone with you. Begging your pardon, dear. Who are you?" she asked, looking at Irene.

Sherlock's brain exploded.

He, John, and Irene began speaking at once.

"Client."

"Friend of ours."

"I'm his wife."

Sherlock's mother's eyes widened, and his father's mouth was ajar. Mr. Holmes gawked at the beautiful woman who was supposedly his son's wife, and turned to Sherlock with a look that demanded an explanation.

"Sherlock, dear boy...you've a wife?"

"Yes," Sherlock curtly responded, his eyes finding an interesting piece of ceiling to examine. He really did not feel like looking at anyone. His mother butted back in again.

"A...a...your wife? And just when exactly were you planning on telling us you had a wife? When was the wedding? Oh, for goodness sake, Sherlock, how could you not tell us?"

"Well, now you know. Surprise. Are we done now?" he demanded.

"Oh no, no, I don't think so, young man! I want to know: how long have you been married?"

"Six days now. We had it done without a ceremony. There wasn't time."

"No time? No time for what? Oh!"

Mrs. Holmes gasped and turned to Irene. She sucked in a vacuum full of air and her mouth was a cave. It looked like someone had dumped intrigue, concern, and delight all over her face like paint. "Are you—?"

Sherlock cut her off; he didn't even want to hear the next word about to spew out of his mother's mouth, so he blurted, "NO, she's not. Please, mummy. Do be sensible. At least..." he stopped short. As far as he knew, she definitely was not pregnant as of six days ago...

"I'm not," Irene said, catching his thoughts in her sharp wit and smiling into her husband's eyes. He didn't return the smile. After all, he was still furious at her for that little cough she had let out. It was because of that innocent little cough that his parents now knew he was married.

"But why didn't you tell us, Sherlock? How could you keep it from us? We've enough secrets in this family; why would you withhold this from your father and I?" Mrs. Holmes demanded, putting her wrinkled hands on her large hips.

"I suppose I forgot...in the rush of things. It was a scheme of Mycroft's."

"A scheme of Myc's? What do you mean, dear boy?" asked Mr. Holmes. The utterly muzzy expression on his father's face made Sherlock want to fall into a hole and never come out.

"No use explaining it now," he said, closing his eyes.

Mrs. Holmes smiled at the couple. "But ah...what a beautiful young lady! I'm surprised at you, Sherlock. I never would have thought..."

"Mycroft thought the same," Sherlock muttered.

"What's your name, dear girl?" Mrs. Holmes asked.

"Irene, mum. Lovely to meet you," she said, holding out her hand to shake it.

"Irene," Mrs. Holmes mused. "Lovely name, darling. Lovely name for a lovely girl."

Sherlock looked at his "lovely girl." He was so amused at his parents' bewilderment. Oh yes, fine; they don't know that this "lovely girl" is the woman who very nearly ruined the monarchy; that this woman almost had her head cut off in Pakistan; that this woman was a professional dominatrix with loads of blackmail material and was responsible for many a scandal; that this woman drugged me, beat me to a pulp with a riding crop, and paraded around in absolutely nothing when I first met her. Mummy and daddy have no clue of this, and it's hilarious.

Irene seemed to be reading his thoughts, and she smirked at him mischievously. The parents seemed to be thinking the two were sharing amorous glances. It was more like they were exchanging an inside joke. At least John was in on it; he chuckled nervously.

"Well, we're here because of Mycroft, aren't we all?" he asked, breaking up the awkward silence. "I'm sure we'd very much like to hear what Lady Smallwood was telling us just before you came in. She's been here since Mycroft was brought in," John said, smiling almost apologetically at Lady Smallwood.

"Quite right, dear boy, quite right," Mrs. Holmes chirped, wiping her eyes. Fresh dew had sprung from the faucet again as she heard Mycroft's name mentioned.

"Well, this morning outside a café," Lady Smallwood began, "where he stopped in to pick up a quick breakfast, a single gunshot fired from a rooftop somewhere. No one saw the shooter, but Mycroft let out a cry and—"

"Just a moment: were you there with him, Lady Smallwood?" Sherlock asked. He knew it was a bit of a delicate subject, but he was finding himself hilariously curious as to whether or not Lady Smallwood and Mycroft had been...out together that morning. And as he predicted, the lady blushed and smiled rather melancholically.

"Yes, I was. We had gone out for a bit before heading to work. He...well, it was my idea, if I'm to be honest."

Sherlock smiled and laughed under his breath. "As I thought; Mycroft doesn't do cafés. Well...not unless he's asked by Lady Smallwood, it seems."

John coughed. "Sherlock," he whispered, chiding his friend for being so trivial.

Sherlock's face forced itself back into its straightjacket-like expression of inquiry and he said, "Apologies for my interruption; please, do continue."

Her face went from bright red to stark white as she composed herself and swallowed.

"Well, as I said," she continued, "there was a single shot from above, but no one could locate the shot's origin. Mycroft let out a cry and instantly fell backwards onto his head."

"He fell backwards?" Sherlock once more interrupted, his eyes sharpening with interest.

"Yes, he fell on his back, why?" asked Lady Smallwood, all uneasiness.

"He fell backwards..." Sherlock whispered to himself. "And tell me: where was he shot?"

She looked at him knowingly. "This was what I wanted to tell you earlier. You see, he was shot just here," she said, whilst pointing to the same place on Sherlock's abdomen where he had been shot before by Mary Watson.

"Same place, then...that is interesting," Sherlock said, sighing into his hands. "He can pull through. He will pull through. The surgery went well, and in no time...he'll be back up."

"A few organs were damaged from the bullet, and they had to remove and repair portions of his stomach to stop the bleeding. The muscle and tissue around his stomach was badly damaged, and they detected bits of internal bleeding. The healing will take a large amount of time, I'm afraid," Lady Smallwood laboriously explained. "If he recovers...oh, I can only hope he will. He's been in a coma ever since they brought him here about an hour ago. I do...I do so hope that he will, Mr. Holmes," she said, sighing heavily and pushing some greyish blonde wisps behind her ears.

"I'm certain of it," Sherlock said, putting his hand on her shoulder and smiling timidly into her shy, blue eyes. Her lips curved pleasantly at the gesture.

"But I wanted to ask: I've just been waiting for you all to show. I hope you don't mind if I go home? Get something to eat? I'm quite famished," Lady Smallwood confessed, wiping her forehead and letting out a sigh.

"Of course," Sherlock said, almost allowing himself the liberty to hug the woman (which he ultimately denied in the end). "You've done enough for one day. Go home, Lady Smallwood," he said, smiling gently. "We will let you know of any developments."

"My prayers are with you all," she told all four of them in her soothing, soft voice. Her eyes glistened with tears as she looked at Mycroft's door one last time before walking away down the hall.

"What a charming woman!" Mrs. Holmes said, beaming. She was all rosy-faced now, especially as she tried to understand just what was happening to her boys and...their women friends.

Mr. Holmes smiled at his wife. "Capital. Just capital. D'you think she fancies our Myc, darling?" he asked Mrs. Holmes, his old, toothy smile striking delight into his wife's heart.

"I should think so, the way she went on about him! And to think! Our Myc going to a café with her. A café! Of all the places! Myc could never stand those cafés, you know... he never could..."

She went off into a solemn silence and started staring at the floor. She sniffled and continued to do so until Mr. Holmes went to comfort her.

"I'm not leaving him, Robert; I simply will not! I'm staying right here; right here! Until they let us in to see him, I'm not leaving. And you know something?" she asked, her red eyes round and excited, "I'm not leaving even when they do let us in. I'm staying right by my boy's side the entire night. Until he comes 'round!"

"And I, my dear, will stay right with you," said Mr. Holmes, kissing his wife's forehead and letting her rest her head on his shoulder. "There now, Violet," he said, patting her head.

"What doves," Irene whispered with admiration. She smiled at the two of them. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"What does that make you, a birdwatcher?"

"Please, Mr. Holmes," she said, irritated. "Have you no aspirations? That could be us, one day." This remark set John Watson into a fit of suppressed laughter.

"God forbid," Sherlock groaned quietly so that only she could hear.


	27. Sister Dear

A/N: I would heartily recommend listening to Paganini's Caprice no. 24 op. 1 in a minor for violin in its entirety before reading the below chapter. Hearing the piece and knowing how it sounds will probably lend some useful context to the moments when this piece is mentioned in the below chapter. I do hope you all enjoy Paganini as much as I do and find the above piece delightful both in general and in the way I use it in the story.  
____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Sand began scurrying madly in the air as the sea wind blew it in every which way around the shore. The waves on the rocks sounded like firecrackers, each new set coming in collided with the malicious stones, sending spray into the air and against the walls.

No one had entered or left the island in the last week; since the hospitalization of Mycroft Holmes, things had been shut down. And until he came out of his coma, it would remain so. None came, none left.

Until, on one mercilessly cold morning in the beginning of November, a helicopter landed on the beach and let out one man wearing a long, dark coat and carrying an instrument case. Shielding his hands over his eyes to keep the sand from stinging his face, he hurried towards the facility where guards were waiting to let him in.

Striding quickly across the beach, Sherlock Holmes made his way into the fortress called Sherrinford.

"Mr. Holmes," a young, clearly novice guard said, opening a side door for him. The black-coated detective curtly nodded at the eager lad, dismissing him coldly as he brushed past and entered the fortress. The door shut behind them, shutting out the frigid air with it. Nevertheless, the interior of this asylum was nowhere close to being…warm.

"We've been expecting you, Mr. Holmes," the guard said, jogging alongside Sherlock, whose long legs made each stride equal to the speed of a run.

"I'm sure you have," Sherlock muttered, walking faster. "I need to speak with Governor McIlroy. Is he here?" he asked. The soldier nodded and led Sherlock down the long, cold, symmetrical halls where every sound echoed menacingly like the inside of a slaughter house.

Officials in suits and soldiers in uniform were everywhere, and Sherlock studied each one of them as they passed. There was no room for anything besides their task at Sherrinford; there was not room enough for error or sympathy. Everyone looked like a robotic representation of the fully functioning human being.

Turning a corner, Sherlock's guide led him to the command center.

"In here, sir," he said, showing Sherlock into the same room with the long table where the entire adventure of The Final Problem had first begun. Governor McIlroy was seated at the head of the table, his perfect posture and square eyebrows the image of rational order and organization.

"Mr. Holmes; right on time, I see," he said, his thick, Scottish accent chopping their ears.

Atticus McIlroy, the newly appointed governor in the management of Sherrinford, was an incredibly lean, dark-haired, stern-faced young Scot with some of the sharpest facial features Sherlock had ever seen. His face might have been cut from a granite slab. Despite his being young, however, he was wise, careful, and incredibly sharp in the head. His eyes darted around every so often as though he were afraid for an incoming attack of some sort. It seemed to signify alertness, and he had Sherlock's utmost respect.

"What of my sister? Has she been told of our brother's hospitalization?" Sherlock abruptly asked, going to the long window and looking out onto the sea having its tantrum.

"She talks to no one, sir. We've tried to tell her; we did tell her of Mr. Holmes's hospitalization, actually…. But she makes no reply. She just stares at the wall and sits. Sometimes she plays the violin, but that's about all she does. She hasn't touched any of the food we've given her this week. We've told her to eat, but when we come back to retrieve the food, it's been thrown; stuck to the walls, smushed on the floors. We've never seen her like this before."

"Has she been given anything to do?"

"Like I said," Governor McIlroy went on, "she plays the violin, but that's all. We've tried to make conversation with her, but she doesn't respond to verbal communication. She doesn't move from her place unless she's alone, and whenever someone returns to check on her, she goes back to her bench with her back to us and her face to the wall."

"You misunderstand my question, Governor. I asked if she has been given anything to do, not if she does anything on her own."

"Right, sir; no, we've not given anything her anything to do, but we never really have, sir. It wasn't part of your brother's instructions," he replied, if a bit sheepishly.

"You said she's not eating. Does she look ill to you?"

"No, sir. She seems fine. Pale, but…well, she's always pale, sir."

"I think it's about time I had a chat with my sister, Governor McIlroy."

Sherlock said, his mind made up. Eurus was suffering; her cold, insufferable mental determination was prohibiting her to crack, but she was cracking…inside. He knew his sister; she was a raging ocean of emotions underneath that sterile, unaffected, blank exterior.

"Let me go down to see her," Sherlock demanded, studying the governor with his eyes, which looked dark and brooding at present.

"Mr. Holmes, I'm not sure I would advise—"

"Let me go down to see her," he said again, his voice louder and more commanding. "You must let me go down to her. Let me talk to her. I've not seen her for a while now, and she'll have noticed my absence. Permit me," he ordered.

"I'm not sure if I can, sir. She's been in isolation for a while (if you don't count the small visits from the caretakers), and I don't know if I want to shock her with too much social stimulation."

Sherlock cocked his head at the gentleman and wrinkled his eyebrows. Please. The two men were about the same height, so their eyes met equally. For a moment the governor opened his mouth to protest, but then thought better of reproaching the younger brother of his superior.

"God help me," he said, throwing up his hands in dismay. He stroked his square chin with some concern. "Take him down," he charged one of the soldiers, "and see that it's done quickly."

…

The silence was enough to drive one mad. She'd been sitting here in the dark for…she didn't even know how long anymore. The solitude was torture. There was nothing she could do besides stare at the walls, make puzzles for herself, or play the violin endlessly into the night.

Nothing moved here…nothing except her.

Nothing spoke here…nothing except her mind, which was louder than the storm inside her heart. Sometimes the waves around Sherrinford grew loud enough, and the gales blew hard enough so that the walls of this prison sounded like drums that God was beating on. With the noise it made, the weather was enough to keep her company on some days.

They had told her about her brother…about Mycroft. Upon impulse, she had smiled. No one had seen her smile, which was a good thing. Maybe that smile was a bit not good, but well…why should she care anyway? He had been the reason she was locked up in this cell…and had been since she was younger than ten years old.

Maybe it was about time he spent a little time "in prison," too.

She missed Sherlock, though. She missed her favorite brother. He was usually around more often than this, and she wondered what had driven him away. His absence was wounding her; she was angry, confused…dangerously silly.

Eurus Holmes, of all the people in the world, was most likely the cleverest. Her mind was a computer, her soul a guillotine, and her thoughts a nightmare. Nothing was too difficult for her, and nothing ever would be. So when booms could be heard from the wall above, she knew what was happening without the consideration of a second thought.

She counted down from ten as she heard the elevator slowly descending, knowing that out of it would step her dear brother. And she knew everything he'd been up to…and she'd get an answer to every question she asked.

Nine…eight…

She crossed her legs and faced the wall, her black hair falling like spilled ink down her back.

Seven…six…

She stared blankly into the wall, her head cocking to one side.

Five…four…

A small smile crept across her face.

Three…two…

She closed her eyes, triumph warming her mind.

One…and…none…

The door opened, and after a moment of quiet hesitation, someone stepped out of the elevator. She already knew it was him, so she didn't need to turn around. As he came closer, the lights flicked on in her cell: cold, white, stinging light that made her eyes hurt when they appeared. But she never blinked or squinted. She was far too clever for that…and far too used to it.

Sherlock was nearing the glass now.

"What kept you so long?" her cold voice asked from the corner of her cell. He made no reply for a few seconds, but she refused to turn around. She was angry.

"More than you know," he answered in a hoarse whisper.

Ugh, what was that in his voice? What was that in her ear? She knew! Of course she knew. What had kept him was "more than she knew?" Unlikely, dear Sherlock…unlikely.

She rose from her seat in the corner of her cell and turned to face him. Her face was pale like the untouched snow at the tip of a mountain, and her long, thick, and deadly black hair drastically contrasting the sheer whiteness of everything else about her.

"Try me," she said, her lips unsmiling, her eyes unblinking, and her hands at her sides. Her mouth stayed open as she eyed him with frightening investigation. He stammered a moment before trying to speak.

"Eurus, you have to understand. Mycroft has—"

"Oh, of course, Mycroft. Mycroft, Mycroft, Mycroft…" she mocked, walking closer to the edge of her cell with the expression of a tiger stalking its prey. "It's always Mycroft, isn't it?" she asked, whispering through the glass, which was now growing foggy with her breath.

"Mycroft's been shot, Eurus."

Her eyes widened just a touch.

"I know; that's what they told me. He was younger than most men, but death is really the only one thing human beings can be relied upon to do. Should you be so shocked if it's to happen to our own brother?"

"Eurus—" Sherlock breathed. His voice had heightened ever so slowly, and he stopped a moment before shouting. She smiled…no, he wouldn't shout. Not at her. Not at his pour, mentally unstable little sister. She took the opportunity to pounce.

"Let's not talk about Mycroft, though. Tell me about her."

Sherlock blinked twice, acting confused. She snickered…some act.

"Sorry, who?" he asked, his brows furrowing.

"Her," she repeated, let her head fall back a little on her neck. "About her. Your wife. I must confess, Sherlock. It took me by surprise. Jim said you've always been fond of her, but, well…you know…he's quite keen on making you fond of anything."

"What do you mean? Have you…have you spoken with him?"

"Oh, didn't I tell you?" she asked, almost laughingly. She stepped back from the glass and went to pick up her violin from her bed in the back-left corner of the room. "I've seen him the last few days. He's stopped by, but only briefly…when no one's around. He gets so excited when he's near me…like a puppy trying to beg for a bone. Didn't realize just how much I missed dear Jim."

"Eurus, what has he said to you?"

Without answering him, and without warning, she started playing Paganini's twenty-fourth caprice. She watched him study her as she began playing. It was fun to watch him agonize over her silence.

She turned her back to him (still playing) as she said, "Just the odd bit about you, and me, and Mycroft…and Irene Adler."

"Eurus, what do you know? We are on the brink of a national emergency; you need to tell me what you know. You…you have to help me. Mycroft said you would. And…" he paused a moment, leaving her ear dangling in the air. She stopped playing the caprice abruptly, making the bow screech foully against the strings. She turned towards him.

"And what?" she asked.

"And I believe you will. After all we've been through, you couldn't say no. You're too clever to say no," he said, putting his violin to his shoulder and beginning to play the song they had learned to play together.

"Because you need me," he said. His jaw was set, and resolve was in his eyes.

Her cold, shrill laugh echoed around the room like a witch's cackle. He continued to play, unphased by the eerie sound. He had heard it enough times for it to shock him.

He was waiting for her to put her violin back on her shoulder, too. Gradually, she began playing along with him, their duet making the cold, echoey cell a hall of music. She smiled a little.

"No, you need me, Sherlock."

"Yes…" he whispered. "Yes, I do."

"Admitting it that easily? You must be very desperate," she taunted, the gaze of her black eyes carving holes in his face.

Then came the vibrato. She had to concentrate, her eyes fixed on her bow, making sure to align it perfectly with the correct strings. Success.

"Jim Moriarty never gave you anything worth holding on to," Sherlock said, looking at her over his violin. "Why, Eurus? Why would you let him play you again?"

Eurus kept playing the violin, focusing hard on the correct notes. It was too easy for her. Sherlock's question was one that irritated her as well.

"To be fair, Mycroft never gave me anything worth holding on to, either," she said, her fingers severely pressing the strings with accuracy…and agitation. He could see the nerves bulging out from under her wrists.

"Maybe Mycroft didn't, but I did."

"Oh, Sherlock," she laughed, throwing a fake smile at his feet. "I don't have favorites, you know. Wherever did you get that idea?"

"From the time you saved John from the well, that's when. You trust me, Eurus."

"Maybe I do…and then…maybe I don't."

And with this, her mind was made up. This was all he would hear from her today. He would have to come again sometime, when she felt in a better mood.

"You'd better run home, dear brother. Your wife misses you, I'm sure," she said. Abruptly, she stopped playing their duet and switched agonizingly to Paganini. The chaos was too much for Sherlock's brain, and he quit playing. She went on playing the caprice, her hand flying everywhere around the fingerboard and her bow slicing the strings. Her head jerked violently as she played, tossing her hair around with each new movement.

"Eurus—" he said, trying to capture her attention once more. She had her back to him now and kept rigorously playing her violin, resolving to ignore his existence. The playing was growing more and more furious: aggressive and wild. The caprice was an erratic piece; nevertheless, he could recognize the agitation growing in the melody that hadn't been written in the original music.

He realized there was no more he could say; no more he could do. If Eurus was determined to remain uncooperative, there was no changing her mind. He would return next week to play with her as he had the weeks before, but there was no trusting her, and there was no changing her. She was who she was, and he was who he was.

Slowly, and with the reluctance of a criminal walking toward the gallows, he sealed his violin in its case, stepped into the elevator, and left her alone to butcher Paganini.


	28. The East Wind Blows

"Let me know if anything changes, mummy. Yes, I know. I will. I'll be down there tomorrow for a visit. Of course. Goodbye, then."

Sherlock set his phone on the table. Cradling his forehead in his right hand, he exhaled in defeat as he sat at the paper-laden table in front of him.

"Sherlock, you realize this is exactly what Moriarty wants?" John asked, sitting in his armchair and bouncing Rosie on his hip as she sucked on a teether toy. "Mycroft's...being in the hospital...has you distracted, mate."

"Of course he realizes that, Doctor Watson," Irene said, looking up from her novel for a moment. She looked at her husband from where she was lying on the sofa. Reading the frustration on his face was too easy.

"But he's quite set on thinking his way through it all the same. He needs time," she said. John felt reproached by her, and his eyebrows furrowed in annoyance.

"I have time," Sherlock spat, side eyeing her and silently barking, "shut up." Her eyebrows flexed. "And I know what I have to do, John," he went on. "I need to see Craig."

"Craig?" John asked. "Craig the hacker? What would you need him for?"

"The Wellington brothers obviously received some type of information from Moriarty that prompted them to tell my brother. If no, then why are they dead? Their personal and work computers have been completely erased of any and all data, as have their email accounts and messaging apps. Nevertheless, there is still a void of stored data that only the most cunning of hackers have access to. That's what I need Craig for."

John pursed his lips. "So...why aren't we already there, then?"

"For goodness sake, Doctor Watson. How insensitive can you be?" Irene breathed, closing her book. "His brother's been shot and is in a coma, his sister has refused to aid him in destroying Jim Moriarty, and this, as you can imagine," she sarcastically crowed, "is a bit of a mental inhibitor. Can you give no account for the shock?"

John's mouth was open. "No, hang on, don't you accuse me of being insensitive. I'm not the one who bloody beat him with a riding crop, drugged him, and/or pretended to be dead, now am I? If you want to talk about insensitive, you ought to examine your own actions before you point a finger at me," he said, his nose bulging with agitation.

"I didn't ask for a whole account of my errors, Doctor Watson, so please don't give me a list. I understand myself perfectly. I'm only speaking in my husband's defense."

"Fine, just don't insult me while you're at it."

"I'm sure I never meant to," she said, nearly rolling her eyes.

"Ugh! Shut up, the whole lot of you! And don't pity me, Miss Adler! I'm fine," Sherlock snapped with insane irritation dripping from his words. "Leave John alone; he's allowed to voice his opinions."

John smiled to himself. Yeah, leave me alone.

Irene retaliated.

"And am I not allowed to voice my opinions? For goodness sake, am I not allowed to defend you, dear husband?" she asked, sarcastically emphasizing the last two words to his extreme annoyance.

"I said not to pity me," he said again, shuffling through some papers and refusing to look her in the eye from where he sat.

"I said the same once," she replied. "But that didn't stop you from feeling it; why should it stop me?" she asked, rising from her place on the sofa and walking into the kitchen. He only followed her with his peripheral vision, determined not to inconvenience his neck muscles for her sake.

"I don't need pity, and I don't need your sympathy," he retaliated. "Please shut up; I find your remarks more of a mental inhibitor than everything else combined. So just please...shut up."

"Fine," she said, rather loudly. "I'm not even here." She fixed a glass of water for herself and returned to the sofa to read. The annoyance on her face was more than self-explanatory. Sherlock huffed furiously.

John took a mental note: he was witnessing Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler have their first "domestic" as a married couple. He decided that history was being made. Eagerly, as though he were at a football match, he waited for who would speak next. When no words came, he sort of just sank back into his chair and dully checked his phone.

At that moment Sherlock's mobile rang, and he answered it after the first ring.

"Hello?"

John still looked at his own phone, but his eyes were vacant circles of fraudulent concentration. He was no longer paying attention to the contents of the screen, but merely staring into it to conceal the obvious crime he was committing: eavesdropping.

Irene was doing the same with her book; her ears were straining to hear the words of the caller, which were loud, rough, and Scottish accented. She took note.

"How long ago was this?" Sherlock asked, rising from his place at the table and walking down the hall towards his bedroom. He shut the door behind him.

Sherlock's voice was now far out of earshot, and Irene, with an air of defeat, disappointedly returned to reading And Then There Were None. John sighed as he picked up where he had left off on his phone. Rosie cooed, trying to push buttons with her slobbery fingers.

Sherlock's voice could still be heard in a muffled tone from behind the bedroom walls, but neither the doctor nor the woman was desperate enough to put their ears to the door...especially in front of each other. If they were alone it might have been different, but...they decided it was best not to think about that.

After five minutes of excruciating patience, Sherlock returned wearing his coat and scarf. In his gloved hands was his violin case. Stopping at the door, he slipped on his shoes.

"Where are you off to, darling?" Irene asked, sitting up and putting her book down.

"So I'm 'darling' again now, am I? What happened to five minutes ago?" he asked, grinning like a boy who's just gotten away with terrible mischief.

"Say no more, or I might grow cross again," she said with an artful turning of the lips. John's face was splitting into a smiley mess in spite of himself. He silently chuckled into his phone...to an onlooker, it might have looked creepy. But he was only pleased with the domestic life his friend now seemed to live. This was so good...too good.

"I thought I recall you saying you fancied it when I grew cross," Sherlock remarked, almost to himself. She mocked an indignant expression.

"Don't be trivial, dear; there are more important matters at hand," she said. "But do tell me: why are you off to Sherrinford so soon? Don't think I didn't notice that Scotch accent on the phone or the violin case in your hands," she said, throwing her head back in triumph. Sherlock almost laughed.

"Apparently Eurus is demanding she see me. She says she'll kill herself if she doesn't; whatever that means, I don't know. But they tell me she's frantic and keeps repeating it over and over again. Quite possibly she just wants me there as soon as possible."

"Probably right," John said. "She's mental, that one. No offense, Sherlock, but..."

"None taken," Sherlock replied; John had every right to hold negative opinions of Eurus. She had almost killed him once, so spiteful emotions toward her were fair and warranted.

"John, keep my wife out of trouble until I get back," Sherlock teased, offering Irene a playful expression. "I'm afraid neither of you can come on this one."

She laughed.

"With all due respect, Mr. Holmes, I've no inclination of meeting my sister-in-law just yet; as charming as she seems, I'm still deciding how I'll make her acquaintance. Nevertheless, do send her my love if she asks after me," she said, plunging back into her book.

"You can count on it," he said, straightening his coat collar once to John's annoyance before heading out the door.

...

"Eurus, stop this. Stop this at once!" Sherlock hollered as he stormed out of the elevator with lengthy strides. His voice penetrated through the glass, and he was determined to have her attention.

She had her long black hair wrapped in two strands twice around her neck, and each hand held the ends of her sectioned hair: ready to pull at any moment and thus suffocate herself.

"Love the tone of urgency, Sherlock. Heartwarming...almost," she eerily sneered.

"Eurus, enough. Look at me," Sherlock demanded, his fist pressed up against the glass. She turned with the hair still around her neck, a horrific grin on her fleshy lips. Her black eyes glowed.

"Nervous for me, Sherlock? You must have come here quickly. Did they tell you I was threatening to kill myself? I told them to make sure they told you that."

"Yes, they told me."

"Well, good," she said, abruptly. She untied the hair from around her neck and plopped down onto her stool with both legs crossed. "You're here. That's what matters now."

"What did you want to see me for?" he asked. He was more than irritated at the frightening gimmicks of his childishly psychopathic little sister.

"I wanted to see you about our little chat yesterday. It didn't end the way I had wanted it to. I'd finished with Paganini, and you were gone. Where did you run off to, Sherlock?"

She went over to the little cubby where she kept her violin and pulled it out, admiring it and tightening a few of the strings. Retrieving the bow, she began rubbing resin on it to prepare it for her daily dose of music.

"I was determined to believe your mind was made up," he said. "You gave me no reason to stay, and I assumed you were quite resolute in your decision to refuse me your assistance."

"And what, may I ask, Sherlock, gave you that inclination?" she asked, rubbing the little block of resin up and down along the bow strings. "I don't remember stating myself clearly." She laughed a moment and threw her hands in the air before adding, "There you go, jumping to those silly little conclusions again."

"What else was I to do?"

"Well, let me ask you this: remind me of your question, once more, dear brother. I've longed to hear you ask it just one more time. Say it again for me—nice and loud, now."

"Eurus—" he retaliated.

"Sherlock—" she whined, like a three-year-old fighting to stay up late.

"I asked that you choose to play on my side. Eurus, don't let Moriarty play you again. Because he will, and you'll never be anything to him, no matter how much he says otherwise. Are you even listening to me, little sister?" he asked exasperatedly. She was focusing on her bow strings and he wondered if she was even paying heed to his words.

"Well, first of all," she mused, "who says I'm letting him play me? Who says I've agreed to play on his team? I never said anything like that. If I did, would you care to refresh my memory? And when did you start calling me 'little sister?' I rather like that."

Sherlock realized that she never had exactly said that she wouldn't help him; she only showed indifference. He stifled a chuckle. With Eurus, indifference so often seems like refusal.

She saw his mouth open as he tried to find words to speak. She liked puzzling him, perplexing him, shocking him. It made her laugh on the inside when he realized that he'd jumped to conclusions; jumping to conclusions was always one of his greatest weaknesses, and she loved playing with it. She decided to end his vexation.

"Well, if you want my help," she said, her voice suddenly dropping to an inquisitive note, "which I think is what you're asking me for...then I will help you. But you must remember, Sherlock...I don't work for free. Mycroft always sent me my treats. I would expect you to do the same."

"Then what do you want, Eurus?"

"I want to see her. Let me see her, Sherlock. Let me see Irene Adler, and then I will give you whatever information you want. But first...I want to meet my brother's wife. My dear sister-in-law."

"You wouldn't like her."

"What's the matter? Scared? Are we?" she asked, smiling almost sadistically at him. "But don't worry. I don't think I'll hurt her. As long as she doesn't hurt me. If everything I've heard about her is true, then I think I'll like her very much. In fact," she said, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, "I think she'll like me, too."

Sherlock said nothing. Eurus saw him swallow once or twice.

"But she must come on her own, Sherlock. I won't have you standing there and monitoring our discussion. I also don't want anyone listening in. No cameras; unsupervised, if you please, dear brother."

"The last time you had an unsupervised discussion, things didn't end well," Sherlock spat, referencing her conversation with Moriarty.

She smiled mysteriously; he wasn't sure what to make of that frightening grin.

"I promise, Sherlock. Pinky promise...it'll be for your good. I have information for you...loads of information. Just let me speak to her...alone...and I'll tell you anything you want. I'll even try to help you with this funny little case."

Sherlock was quiet a moment, his studious gaze silently surveying his sister's innocent face; the more innocent it was, the more trouble he feared. She was beginning to remind him of Irene more and more.

"Why did you need to see me so urgently? Why did you threaten to kill yourself if you didn't see me?"

"Well..." she mused, "it brought you here, didn't it, Sherlock?"

"Yes...but no, that's not how you work, little sister."

"Quite clever...you always were," she said, admiring him. "You'll find out soon enough. I don't think now's the time for you to know. But don't worry. You'll know; not yet, but soon."

"Why should I trust you?"

"Jim was here last night," she said, ignoring his question. "He told me lots of things. I can tell you one of them. He has plans for this nation that are beyond anything we have ever dreamed, and if you want me to disclose this information, I will tell you once you have let me meet with your wife. Do you understand, Sherlock?"

"Mycroft told me I could trust you. He told me that I could trust you, Eurus. Don't make our brother regret his final words to me."

"Ah, well, I shall do my best to conform to his understanding of me."

"Eurus—" he said, breaking off.

"You have to trust me, Sherlock. Why would I let you down? Please? I promise."

"A promise, sister?"

Eurus cocked her head and grinned with an odd sort of expression.

"A promise, dear brother," she replied, picking up her violin and beginning to play their duet. She waited for her brother to join her, and once he did, a slight smile spread across her face.

There was a worm in his throat, but he tried to smile as he played.


	29. Domestic Attempts and Tesco Biscuits

"Do you know why?"

The answer was a hopeless one, and it irritated him to say it. But without looking into the questioner's face and swallowing the clot in his throat, he uttered the word in a husky tone.

"No."

The clouds had grown dark around London after Sherlock had arrived home that night, and rain was beating against the windows. Irene was sitting across from him with a cup and saucer resting in her lap.

"I will admit that I'm quite interesting, but I won't pretend I don't wonder. What does she want to see me for? Surely you've...some idea?" she asked, putting the cup to her lips. He looked discomforted.

"Something along the lines of Moriarty. She says she's seen him. I don't know how that's possible, and I doubt it is, but she says she has. He's told her something...he's said something to her that's made her interested in you. How else could she have known about you in the first place?"

"You were wearing a wedding ring. That's hardly a difficult leap."

"Your name isn't exactly on it," he instantly replied, blowing her theory into a million pieces. She grinned.

"Of course."

He looked at his phone to check for any new updates from anyone, but not a single message satisfied his inquiry.

"What time did John leave earlier?" he asked.

"A few minutes after you left; Rosie started fussing, and I'm afraid he finds me too much of a formidable partner to pass time with. I hardly spoke to the man."

"Rather inhospitable of you."

"That isn't my fault. Last I checked, I thought you told him to keep me out of trouble. That makes him the host, not me; even if it is our flat."

Sherlock returned to the case file, and Irene returned to her tea. The fire was crackling in the hearth, the rain was tapping politely on the window, and the silent, repetitive, restful breathing of two people filled the flat with unequaled serenity.

Sherlock wondered just what exactly had happened to him over the course of the last month. Someone had managed to secure his attentions, he was finding himself bound to another's soul in marriage, and he couldn't account for the compulsive way he lent his arm to a woman whenever they walked side by side.

And then there were the quiet nights at Baker Street. John was absent most nights, and before the woman had returned, his usual evenings were spent in quiet solitude. Melancholic thoughts and deductions floated through his head, and there was no one to hear them. There was no one to impress with his genius, which made things quite boring. He usually called John on most dreadful nights, but sometimes (and most times) he was willing, but Rosie would already be fast asleep.

But things had changed so dramatically.

He wasn't alone anymore.

Every night there was a woman in the armchair opposite him, reading a book and drinking a cuppa with her legs crossed. She listened, she argued, she teased, she flirted.

Deductions were fascinating to her, and displaying them as though they were simple observations on his part (which was true half the time) sparked in her an intrigue, and her eyes would narrow while her lips parted. He could tell he impressed her, and while he never let her see it, he nearly always felt a burner gently warming his stomach.

He glanced up to find her looking at him with steady, unblinking admiration. He said nothing and resumed reading. She smiled to herself and girlishly bit her lip.

"I'd say domesticity suits us, wouldn't you, Mr. Holmes?" she asked. His eyes froze on the words he was reading. Is that what this was?

Without looking up from the file, he replied, "If you can call us marrying for the sake of thwarting the plans of a master criminal "domesticity," then yes...I think it suits us fine."

Although he had refused to look up from his file, she could tell he was feeling the same feelings as she. His answer had been plain enough, but she knew it only meant that he was putting off something deeper. For she too had been considering the present state of things, even if she hadn't spoken her thoughts aloud.

Ten years ago, to have thought she would ever be married would have been a repulsive idea. She had made a life of seeing people beg, cry, scream, and the thought of letting herself sink so low as to "love" someone was something she would never have permitted. Men who thought they were in love with her would return to find their trust compromised. Women who thought they had a lover would return to find their reputations ruined. It had brought her such pleasure to do it.

She didn't love people. She never let herself love anyone. Love was dangerous; love kept work from getting done; love was an obstacle in the way of success. Love was child's play and a stupid game she didn't have time for...a dangerous disadvantage and one she was not willing to fall prey to.

Yet here she was: married to the only person she had ever feared her feelings for. Here she was: giving herself the liberty to love him, and choosing to do so willingly. She mastered him, but in every sense of the word, he mastered her. She had told him that she would not mind being his other half, and she hadn't lied. She wasn't minding being his other half; she didn't mind that he was hers. In fact, she was enjoying it beyond reason.

She didn't know love. She never knew it, and she never expected she would as she was now. She had known pleasure well enough, to be sure. But she didn't know that love was the greatest pleasure of them all. Because now, she knew someone better than she had ever known anyone. She cared for someone more than she had ever cared for anyone. She thought of someone...more than she had ever thought of anyone else before.

Every embrace, every touch, every kiss was not one she had to expect payment for...it was not one she had to document for possible use as a weapon of extortion. It was freely given, freely received, and joyfully expected. Every night she had someone to hold her, and for the first time in her life, the idea of ruining that someone was a horrible notion.

And now, here she sat: Mrs. Irene Holmes. Sitting across from her husband—the clever detective in the funny hat—her chest was bursting with pride, and she looked at him steadily. He caught her glancing at him again, but he didn't smile. He only returned to the pressing case file in his hands. She loved it when he "ignored her" like that; it was almost flirting.

She had a bit of a question, and if she knew him as well as she thought, he would impress her with a bit of deduction.

"I'm still at a loss for words, Mr. Holmes," she said.

"What about?" he asked, shuffling a few of the papers into order without looking up.

"The deaths of the Wellington brothers. They were murdered at around the same time, in the same way, but in different locations. Have you come to any conclusions?"

"I have, in fact," Sherlock muttered...secretly hoping for an excuse to go on.

"Do tell," she said, setting her tea in her lap and smiling playfully.

She studied the expression on his face and could tell he was about to throw myriads of deduction at her feet. Her heart raced. Her lips twisted into a grin. How she loved this part.

"Well," he began, "there was some level of information that both men were sent regarding what my brother termed 'The National Problem.' When this information reached the brothers, they panicked, knowing what it would do to England. They left the note for my brother on his desk, but Moriarty had most likely already caught wind of their treachery. Now that the government knew a plot existed, the brothers had to be executed. And knowing how close they were (which is what Lestrade tells me of peoples' accounts of them), Moriarty would have wanted to play with their brotherly bond. If each man had been threatened, told that their death would save the other, most likely they would both have ended their lives thinking that their individual death would let the other live. But in reality, they both killed themselves and they both died. This would also explain the rope marks around their necks: death by self-hanging. Then, after they had been killed, Moriarty—or rather, Schreiber, or perhaps both—had cut their throats and positioned them in different places at different times to distort the fact that they were indeed murdered at the same time for the same purpose. While this still remains an untested hypothesis," he said, interrupting his rapid flow of deduction to appear modest (which failed miserably), "I doubt it is far from the actual truth, as most of the evidence points me inevitably to this conclusion."

He eyed her intently, knowing by the look on her face that he had managed to heighten her senses. He looked into the fire and sighed, his eyes communicating a disinterest in her response...which could not have been further from the truth.

"Dear God," she whispered. "Will you let me kiss those lips of yours?"

"Why?" he asked, remotely interested, but outwardly displaying indifference. He still looked into the fire.

She raised her eyebrows before replying with a sugar-coated tongue, "It's only just occurred to me that brainy is still the new sexy."

He inhaled slowly to keep his mouth from forming a smile, then exhaled quickly and returned to the file.

"No; not now, at least. I've work to do."

Her eyebrows shot up.

"Do you?"

"Yes."

In an instant, she was out of her chair with her hands resting on his arms, down on her knees in front of him. She slowly closed the file in his lap and set it down beside her on the floor. He didn't say anything, only stared at her hands in confusion. That didn't change the fact that his pulse was speeding up.

"Hmm," she said, pressing her hands into his skin and feeling the rapidity of the blood flow. "Elevated," she deduced, smirking coquettishly.

"Equally," he replied, doing the same to her pulse.

"You do realize we have your brother to thank for all this?" she asked, tracing lines on his arm.

"For what?"

"Don't pretend you're not pleased, Mr. Holmes. You're enjoying yourself, and there's no use denying it," she said, her eyes dimming.

He paused before responding.

"I—"

He didn't finish; in truth, he wasn't sure how.

"This feels awfully familiar," Irene said, drumming her fingers on his flesh as she would a table. He watched...watched and remembered when they had first been in this position.

"But I think you were too late last time," she purred, nuzzling her nose against his.

He softly kissed her, putting a bit of hair behind her ear as he did so. It came free the moment he let go. She breathed an infantine laugh; despite his best efforts at romance, he was still a trifle clumsy. She stole a glance into his eyes (which were silently laughing) before leaning in to kiss him again.

"Ooh! Ooh, dear!" a muffled squeak came from behind the door that was slowly creaking open. Sherlock and Irene both stood up instantly at the sound. Sherlock could have sworn the door hadn't been open five minutes ago. In all likelihood, it probably hadn't been.

"S-sorry, am I interrupting?" Mrs. Hudson timidly asked, coming out from behind the door and holding her apron to her mouth in suspense as if she were watching a horror movie.

"No, not at all," Irene chirped, spinning to face the landlady. She acted as though nothing of significance had just happened.

Sherlock, on the other hand, cleared his throat as if there was a rat stuck in his esophagus. His face was frighteningly red.

"It's just that I had some leftover biscuits from tea with a couple of friends this afternoon. Thought you might like them? It's never good for me to have so many sitting around...I get a habit!" she said, patting her stomach and nodding vigorously.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes as she found a place for the biscuits in the kitchen. His head still looked like it was on fire. "I'm sure I don't know what we would do without biscuits," he sarcastically concluded.

Irene scowled at him.

After stowing the biscuits, Mrs. Hudson turned around with a face that was as red as a pimple ready to pop. She seemed almost as embarrassed as the detective, who by this time only wanted to crawl into a hole and die somewhere.

"Are you all settled for the night? Did you need anything before I hopped off to bed?" Mrs. Hudson asked, wringing her apron compulsively.

"No, I think we're quite alright, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock replied, forcing a smile and gently guiding (but really shooing) the old lady towards the door.

"Well, if you need anything, just let me know; I'm really very happy to help!" she asserted, smiling like a schoolgirl on her way out.

"Yes, I'm sure you are; good night!" Sherlock said, trying to remain friendly and polite, but trying not to remind the woman with a frustrated tone for the millionth time to knock before entering.

With the door shut, Sherlock massaged his forehead; he was overcome with embarrassment and felt ridiculous. Irene was in the kitchen, taking advantage of the biscuits Mrs. Hudson had left.

"You mustn't be too hard on her, darling," Irene said. "She's only curious; I sympathize completely."

"The question remains: are you going to see my sister tomorrow?" Sherlock asked, crossing his arms over his chest and joining his wife in the kitchen. He couldn't resist a couple of these hideous biscuits, either. He picked at a few that were still whole for edible consumption.

"I think so," she said, swallowing the last bit. "These are much better with tea," she added, making a face. She took a couple with her back to her chair where her cup and saucer were still waiting.

Sherlock watched her from the kitchen.

"So, you are going?" he asked.

She finished a sip of tea, then looked up.

"Yes, I think will. I suppose it's about time I met the infamous Eurus Holmes. One does wonder if the stories do her credit," she said, with loads of imagination attached to her words.

"You've no idea what she's like, Miss Adler," he said. He saw her roll her eyes when he spoke her maiden name.

"You don't," he repeated. "Eurus is unpredictable. Tempestuous. You have to speak calmly. Give her your full attention. If she can see you're afraid, then you've lost."

"I appreciate the thoughts, darling," she said, "but I'll have you know that this won't be my first psychopath. I'll do as well as I can, which I'm sure will be enough."

He didn't say anything, but stuffed a few more biscuits into his hand and returned to his chair. He didn't even like these. He was picky about his tea biscuits, and always bought the shortbread kind packed in the little tins from the Twinings on the Strand. They were far too expensive for tea biscuits, and he really didn't have the money for them, but he didn't care. Biscuits were important. 

The ones in his hand were the two-pound cheap alternative from Tesco. He scowled.

Crossing his legs, he found her staring at him again.

"These are horrible," he spat. A crumb fell out of his mouth.

"Better than nothing," she replied, nibbling on her own after a sip of tea.

"Then I'm fine with nothing," he retorted, refusing to take another bite. She laughed under her breath and returned to her tea. She looked at him a moment, mysteriously playing with his eyes.

"What were you going to do?"

"When?"

"If our dear Mrs. Hudson hadn't barged in?"

"To be fair, you were about to kiss me."

"I was. Were you intending to reciprocate the gesture?"

"Seems you'll never know."

"Mr. Holmes..." she whined.

And just for a moment before he returned to the file, Sherlock's mouth tipped upward and he let out a laugh.


	30. Memento Mei

A/N: I apologise in advance for this chapter. I feel a bit like Steven Moffat, writing something like this. It's a long one, it was hard to write and equally hard to edit. It's a chapter that is difficult for me to put out to you lovely, devoted readers. I know many of you were anticipating something much different for this chapter, but I do hope you will still follow along, as I'm so pleased with where things are going.

The remainder of the story has been plotted. The climax is being drafted. Good news: I am almost finished writing this entire novel (can we call it that?). Chapter thirty-one is already complete, as is thirty-two. 

Never fear: I will not be abandoning this fic.

That said, here's chapter thirty.

Enjoy :)

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"Please just go in to see him."

Irene Crowley is staring at the wall, her back to the door. She pulls and twists her fingers angrily. She bites her lip with what seems to be an irrepressible hunger to draw blood. She feels her aunt's hand settle gently on her shoulder, compelling her to turn and follow.

"Don't make me, aunt," Irene replies, cracking her knuckles. She looks out of the open window at the meadow below: a mockery of the chaos in her head.

"He hasn't seen you in nearly twenty years, Irene. You need to see him. Please, dear girl. I'll go with you."

"I'm not a girl, aunt. I'm a woman. Don't touch me. If I want to go, then I will. Until then, just leave me alone."

"He doesn't have long—"

"I said," she stormily replies, turning to meet her aunt's gaze with fire in her icy blue eyes, "if I want to go, then I will. Now get out. I want to be alone."

"Irene—"

"Oh, for goodness sake, just get out! Why the hell did I even come?"

She nearly slams into the window as she bangs her hands down upon the sill. The salty sea air floating through is nauseating, even now. She hears aunt's footsteps retreating out of the room, closing the door behind her. Irene lets out a sigh that flies on the wings of her misery. Her eyes are watery against her will.

Alone in the sitting room, she paces back and forth between the window and the door.

She reads the new message from Kate that's just come in. It puts a lump in her stomach: "You've a session in two and a half hours."

She punches the reply "I know" into the text box, sending what she hopes will be the last message of the day. She has to be back in London in two hours; the client who waits will most likely get less than what she bargained for.

The Woman is desolate today.

A long, low, stomach-turning groan sounds from one of the rooms down the hall. It's taking him now, she thinks to herself. Hearing his voice in that tone makes a shudder fall out of her own mouth. Hearing his voice in that tone makes her remember the events of years gone by.

Mother's dead body.

His unbridled rage.

Her own black eyes and blue arms.

The decade of blackmail and literal hell that was Eliza Munson.

Those lonely years in Yorkshire.

Her lust for acceptance.

The insatiable cravings of the carnal.

The men she could control.

The women she could manipulate.

The stories people told of her.

Who she had become...well, that is a little comfort.

The voice down the hall echoes and rattles the shaky walls of the old house. She clenches her teeth when the sound reaches her ears again. Oh, Lord God! Make it stop, please!

"Why doesn't she come? Oh God, make her come! For the love of God, let me see my daughter before I die!" he was screaming now. She turned toward the closed door, her breaths quivering as she has seldom heard them quiver.

This is new: she scares herself.

"Let her come!" he moans on, "Oh, why doesn't she come? Irene! Irene, please! Please, if you can hear me! If you can hear me, then come! For the love of God, come!"

She throws open the door, unable to continue bearing his disgusting, intermittent, hoarse pleas. Heels clicking violently against the old, hard wood, she sucks in her breath as she walks down the narrow hall. This place feels like an asylum.

She stands in the doorway of his bedroom; she's not seen him in nineteen years...she's not seen him since that fateful day when she had stumbled upon his crime as an eight-year-old child.

He ought to be a relatively young man still, but not so. It looks as though he's aged a hundred years. He's a skeleton with a canvas stretched over the bones that surge with cancer.

As she stares at him, it seems as though the devil has only just come to light a little fire beneath her soul. She wants to scream, to cry, to run, and to hide in a place where nothing matters and nothing ever will.

The man beholds his daughter; when he had last had his hands on her as an eight-year-old girl, she was feeble, breakable, and fragile. Now, a young woman in her late twenties meets his gaze, and if he were to touch her now, he would find a hard, weather-beaten, immovable grindstone. Her jaw is set, her eyes vicious, her lips thin and red like a crimson wound.

It reminds him of her too much and he can't help it when he cries out.

"Victoria!" he shakily gasps, his eyes bulging with terror and fear. "Victoria, oh my God! Victoria! Oh, Victoria!" he begins yelling, covering his face and sopping eyes with shaking, bony hands.

"Don't you speak her name. Don't you DARE speak her name!" Irene humidly seethes, her nostrils flare and her fists ball up. Her eyes are sacks of water ready to burst. "Not in front of me! I'll not hear you speak the name of my mother in front of me! Don't you dare!"

Her voice deepens as the water in her eyes grows heavier.

"Irene! Irene—!" he says, opening his hands beseechingly to his only child.

"What is it?" she demands, throwing her hands in the air. "What do you want to say to me? What do you want to say before you die? What is it you want to tell me that you couldn't have done five days ago? Five months ago? Five years ago? I waited for you!" she yells, her throat catching on fire and her eyes officially spilling over with tears. The droplets fall like shooting stars from the heavens.

"I waited—waited every day for ten long, insufferable years at that miserable school for the only man who ever really mattered to me!" She puts her hand to her mouth to keep a sob shut up in her throat. "But no—not one letter. Not one request to see me. I was—no, I AM—convinced that you hate me."

"Irene—" he says, through a veil of tears.

"No," she said, shaking her head miserably at him. "I'm not your daughter. I've changed my name; I am Irene Adler. I am my mother's child. I will never be yours! Never! Because you—you—"

The words are lodged in the back of her mouth, and she can't continue. She inhales, sounding like a broken engine, and manages to get the last out.

"Because you didn't want me."

She spits it out, holding her hand to her forehead and weeping bitterly with her arm on the wall to support herself.

"Irene—" he tries again, his voice shakes.

"All I wanted was to love you! I only ever wanted you to love me! You—"

She can no longer speak. The convulsive nature of the sobs is making communication impossible, and the words remain unspoken, seeming to clog her airways. Her hand is over her face; she wants to stop crying, but she can't. Her mouth is open, and long, loud sobs fall out.

"Irene—Irene, please—" she hears her father beg.

"No, no..." she says through gritted teeth. She inhales till she can no longer breathe in, and pushes every bit of overwhelming sentiment down into her chest. But it won't stay put, and she keeps crying into her hands. Rogue mascara burns her eyes, and she wipes them aggressively.

She gasps in surprise as her aunt enters the room, aghast at the state of her niece.

"I can't do this—" she breathes. "I'm so sorry, aunt. I'm so sorry—I can't. I never will. Forgive me...I...I can't," she whispers before hurdling past her and hurrying from the room. She can't bear to look into her father's face again, so she runs back down the long, narrow hall toward the door.

She can hear him moaning and bawling all the way, but she also moans and sobs in equal magnitude. She doesn't have time for him. She doesn't have time to mourn. She doesn't have time for anything anymore.

She is so much better; so much more than anything her father had expected of her. She has to be back in London to fix her hair, paint her lips, line her eyes, bare her luscious figure, and eagerly anticipate another night of lying in the bed she has made for her life.

She furiously smacks an invisible whip across the door post as she storms out of the house.

Aunt's petty voice breaks her determined reverie. She almost screams with rage when she feels the woman's hand on her arm.

"Oh, Irene!" her aunt implores, catching her before she exits through the front door. Irene turns with mascara dripping down her face from the tears she had so vilely shed only moments before.

"What did he say to you?"

Irene says nothing, only staring at her aunt as violent emotions tug demandingly at her heart.

"What did he say to you? Irene? Why don't you answer me? What did he say to you?"

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"What did she say to you?"

Sherlock's voice cut the memory in half. The elevator opened, and she saw her husband standing to the side, having waited for her the entire time. The water in her eyes fell backwards after a few quick blinks, and she washed her brain of the old anxieties, fears, and snapshots that made up her remembrance of the day her father died.

The present was what mattered now. Don't let the past make you slouch, dear girl.

"Well," she huffed, "that's done." Taking long, determined strides down the hall, Irene began marching back towards the exit from whence they had come thirty minutes earlier. Sherlock fell in stride beside her.

"What did my sister say to you?" he asked again.

"Nothing of importance," she replied. "And besides, even if I wanted to tell you, you know I couldn't."

"It's not as if she would know."

"Doesn't your family have enough secrets as is? You don't want to go adding another, Mr. Holmes," she said, raising her eyebrows reprovingly at him. "Besides, knowing her, she would probably find out one way or another. But I will say that your sister," she declared, "is one of the most charming women I have ever met. I should have come to see her sooner. She has such a frightening way of doing everything. It's wickedly attractive. I like her very much. She's a lovely sister-in-law."

"I'm glad you think so."

"And you don't?"

"I'm not sure," he concluded, surveying her face as she continued to walk quickly down the long, cold, echoing corridor.

"You look pale," he said, offering his arm (which she greedily accepted).

"It's almost the first day of winter; you'd expect it, wouldn't you, Mr. Holmes?"

"Except for the fact that it's warm in here."

"Warm? In Sherrinford?" she asked. "No, I don't think so. I'm frightfully cold." She straightened the collar of her coat...the coat that was identical to his own. Seeing her straighten the collar provoked Sherlock's lips into a quick smirk.

They were escorted back onto the beach, where the helicopter was waiting for them, parked on the sand. Sherlock was silently deducing a million things in his mind as he looked at his wife. Her face was placid enough, but something was amiss.

Damn his sister.

He would have it out, but he wasn't sure how. His wife was keen on keeping things hidden, but he was convinced of his own wit, too.

The helicopter ride was silent and brief, the cab ride through London equally soundless and quick, and by the time they were back in Baker Street, things felt odd between them. Irene looked utterly exhausted, but was still her usual sardonic self.

Throwing off her coat, she flopped down laboriously onto the sofa, throwing her hands over her face and closing her eyes. Sherlock thought she bore a frightening resemblance to the sleeping young woman in Fuseli's The Nightmare. She was even wearing a white dress, which made the realization all too odd.

"I'll be returning to Sherrinford tomorrow to discuss the second half of our agreement with my sister. She promised me information in exchange to see you. At least now I'll have an upper hand over Moriarty."

She didn't say anything, but her chest softly rose and fell. If it hadn't been for that, he would have honestly considered checking to see if she were alive. She looked almost ill.

"I hope you realize how much I despise it when you keep things hidden from me?" he asked, sitting in his armchair by the fire and crossing his legs. His fingertips flew to their position below his nose.

"Is that what I do?" she asked, barely above a whisper.

"It is now, at least. You may as well tell me what you and Eurus spoke about. I'm to find out eventually, so why not tell me now?" he asked; it looked like he was peering at her over a pair of invisible spectacles.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes," she said, letting it out in a sigh. "You've no idea how naughty you can be. Just this once, you'll not persuade me into misbehaving. I've made a promise to your sister that I'm afraid I mean to keep. Now be a good boy and let me get some sleep. I'm exhausted. If you're bored in my absence, then I can find something for you to do."

He picked at his upper lip with his pinky finger, ignoring his wife's suggestion. She seemed to take no notice of his silence, which was something else he noted as strange.

Eventually, she fell asleep on the settee. He settled back into his chair and put his arms at his sides; he even let his head fall backwards and closed his eyes.

His phone destroyed his attempts at resting, and he retrieved it from his pocket after it buzzed a few times. It was Lestrade:

Any new leads?

He sighed, decided he had nothing he wanted to say to the inspector at the moment, so he ignored the text accordingly. Boredom was beginning to set in. He ventured into his bedroom to find a new book to dive into, as he had just finished The Man Who Was Thursday. It had ended a bit more "mythically" than he had supposed it would, but the entire notion and silliness of the story was...quite brilliant, to say the least. He would have to tell Mycroft how much he had enjoyed it. Well, once Mycroft came out of his coma.

Settling on a little old book, The Abolition of Man, he returned to the sitting room to read. Something very few people knew about Sherlock Holmes was that he was a man with literary interest. And artistic interest. He didn't express it as often as he should have, but complex narratives and odd images stimulated his mind, especially when he was standing on the edge of the never-ending crevice that was boredom.

The Abolition of Man was a set of grossly philosophical arguments by the great C.S. Lewis, and Sherlock had always been intrigued by the man's curious (although strangely plausible) notions. The first few pages were already proving astounding.

Once again, Sherlock's mobile danced in his pocket, and with a frustrated sigh, he drew it out to find John Watson calling him. He decided to answer in his bedroom for fear of being overheard.

"Hello?" Sherlock asked, a little agitated. John must have sensed it in his voice.

"Yeah, Sherlock, are you coming? Have you forgotten we're meeting Craig at his place this afternoon? Are you even back from Sherrinford yet?"

Sherlock's consciousness was dramatically disturbed. How could I have forgotten?

"Ohhh, good God have I forgotten? Damn it, are you there already?"

"Yeah, I've...I've been here for the last...twenty minutes. Are you okay? I mean, you don't normally...you know, forget things like this. How did this morning go?"

"I don't know. And that's what's driving me mad. I must have forgotten our meeting with Craig. I'm on my way. I'll be down there as soon as I can get a cab."

"Erm...okay. D'you—d'you need anything? I mean with Irene. Is she...how is she doing?" John's voice was incredibly shaky, as though he were afraid of offending. He probably was. "Did everything work out with her and...you know...your sister?"

"I don't know what to make of her, John. We can discuss it when I get down there. Just give me ten minutes. I won't be long."

"Maybe..." John stopped a moment. "Maybe...I dunno. Maybe you shouldn't leave her. We can always do this...another time."

Sherlock hesitated before speaking.

"No, she's fine. She's asleep right now. Don't worry, John. I'll be there in ten minutes."

"Okay...yeah, fine. I'll see...erm...see you then."

Sherlock hung up and shoved his phone into his pocket.

Returning into the sitting room, he found Irene sitting up on the sofa, a blanket around her shoulders and her hair falling messily down her back. Her lips were pursed.

"Leaving?"

"I'm going down to meet John at Craig's; I've got to be off. I expect you want to come?" Sherlock suggested, throwing on his coat.

"No, I'd honestly rather not. I'm rather...fatigued after meeting with our silly little sister. I do think I fancy a nice long bath. Maybe another nap while I'm at it."

"Not like you."

"A bath not like me? Do you even know me at all?"

"No, I mean about you not coming. That's not like you."

"I'm allowed to be tired, Sherlock. Don't mock me."

"I'm not mocking."

"Then give me peace. Honestly," she groaned, rolling her eyes despite their being closed. His eyes narrowed, but he didn't say another word on the matter.

"We'll bring food for dinner; don't wait up if Mrs. Hudson brings tea."

"I won't," she breathed, her lids still shut.

"Stay out of trouble," he ordered, before throwing open the door.

"I'll do my best," she said, falling back onto the sofa.

Sherlock walked out onto the street, and as he prepared to raise his hand in the air to hail an oncoming taxi, he jerked it back down and shoved it into his pocket. Then he pulled out his phone and called John.

"John, gotta call it off today."

"Why? What's wrong?"

"I just do; change of plans."

"Yeah, but Sherlock—"

Sherlock hung up before John could say anything else. His phone rang a few more times, but he ignored it sizzling inside his pocket. He had ignored John's phone calls before, and he was sure he wouldn't mind it if he did it again.

He decided to hail the next cab after all, and getting inside, ordered the driver to Euston Square station. About five minutes into the drive, Sherlock squinted down at his phone.

"Oh, driver," he said, in an oddly polite tone, "would you mind terribly taking me back from where you picked me up? I've forgotten something."

"You need me to wait for you outside while you fetch it, then, sir?" the cabby asked, looking over his shoulder for a brief moment.

"No, that's alright. I think I'll be a while," he replied, looking at his phone in a preoccupied manner. The cabby looked confused, but did as he was bid.

"Just drop me off at the corner, would you? I don't want to take too much of your time."

"No, sir issalright. I'll take you to the door, no trouble."

"The corner, if you please, sir," Sherlock replied, his politeness starting to disappear under the thin veil. The cabby's eyes broadened in apprehension, and when they made it to Baker Street, he let Sherlock out on the corner as he was instructed.

"Thank you so much," the detective said, exaggerating his words with nauseating politeness. The cabby smiled weirdly...he wasn't sure what to make of this mad man in a black coat. He simply shrugged and drove off.

After waiting for a few moments on the corner to look at his mobile, Sherlock strode down the path and reentered the flat he had only just left moments before. Quietly, he ascended the stairs, making sure to avoid the one overly-creaky step, and slid through the open door to 221B.

The sofa was vacant, and the blanket was on the floor. In her place was a good-sized carpet bag. Opening it slightly, he found clothing, toiletries, and other items of significance belonging to his wife.

The pipes in the wall were silent, so she wasn't having a bath. The kitchen was empty, as was the bathroom. There was only one last place to look: his bedroom.

As he reentered, he saw exactly what he had expected to see. She was wearing her coat and had her cell phone in one of her hands. Her hair was done up expertly. On seeing him, her eyes widened, her lips parted, and she pocketed the phone. But after a second of registration, she smiled innocently.

"Forget something?" she asked.

"No."

"Then—"

He cut her off; he understood what was happening all too well.

"No," he said, softly and possessively.

"No what?" she asked, acting confused by his ridiculous assertion.

"You aren't doing this."

"I'm not doing what?"

"Don't play games with me," he said, standing in the doorway and blocking the light from coming in. His shadow was enormous as it fell across the floor and enshrouded her in darkness.

"Don't pretend you're not leaving," he said.

"Mr. Holmes—"

"I'm not wrong," he said raising his eyebrows.

She swallowed, her eyes never once leaving his face.

"I have to," she said, determination making her voice sink to a deep tone.

"No, you don't," he replied, equally set in his intentions.

"I'm going."

"Stay."

"Why?"

He stopped talking and decided to keep the next bit to himself. He wasn't...that desperate. She looked at him, the question "why" was still written on her face.

"I don't see a reason I must," she said, buttoning the top button of her coat. "I'm going, Mr. Holmes. Please...don't follow me."

"You can't."

"I am."

He stood in her way so that vacating the room was an impossibility.

"Irene—" he said as she walked into him. "Don't."

"Ah," she said. She looked into his face, cocking her head and sporting a coy smile. "Using my name now, are we? You really are desperate."

"No, I'm not."

"Then let me pass."

"I don't think so," he murmured, dangling a knowing smile in front of her face. He knew her all too well. "You don't want to leave, so don't. You've given me no reason for your leaving, there's nothing between us that would make you leave, and you certainly haven't been bored since the wedding. What," he asked, his face inches from her own, "has Eurus told you?"

"None of your business," she hotly responded, making a useless attempt to move towards the door.

"You will tell me," he said.

"I'll not be made to do anything, Sherlock," she replied, her voice like vinegar on a wound. "Now...let me pass."

He could see the teeth clenching behind her firmly set lips; things were happening in that clever head of hers. She was determined to get away without inquiry.

"No," he said, softly and calmly. Her eyes widened.

He lowered his face and wrapped his fingers around her wrists, drawing her to himself. In the complete absence of warning, he had gently claimed her in his arms, and was slowly, delicately kissing her. It was the last thing she had expected from him, for she knew that he was never given to such outbursts of romantic affection; apparently, he was now.

In shock, her hands wandered toward his neck. He kneaded his lips into hers, and she stroked his with equally tender motions. She was practically breathing him in, and he felt so full of her that he could never possibly let her go.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes," she whispered in between kisses. The sheer intensity was making her hands fiercely grip his shoulders, practically begging him to keep her there.

Indeed, his arms had such a tight hold on her that she felt like she was being pressed in between two walls that were slowly closing in. He'd never held her so securely before. He was trying to keep her from flying away.

She knew it, but the reluctant little bird was determined to fly.

After he had finally unglued his lips from hers, their noses were touching and both of them were quite simply, for lack of a better description, out of breath. She kissed his nose delicately and sighed.

"Don't make me order you," she said. His breath on her cheek has magnetizing. Taking her hands from around his neck, she tried to put them at her side. She managed to put one in her pocket, but he still held her in a vice.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes," she said, quickly kissing the corner of his mouth. He looked at her as if he was assured of his being able to keep her there.

"No, Miss Adler..." he whispered. "You're not sorry."

A small, confident, and knowing smile graced his closed lips. She could scarcely comprehend the meaning of the ambiguous look on his face.

"No," she said. "I truly am." It was at this moment that she nearly started wildly weeping outright, but she clenched her teeth together to keep all the water behind the gate.

Stroking his cheek and floating up to his face to kiss him again, she waited until his eyes were closed before pulling her hand out of her pocket. In it was a syringe, and in one swift motion, she had plunged it into his shoulder.

"No!" he screamed, feeling the needle pierce his skin. Nevertheless, she injected the liquid, holding him so as to guide him to the floor, where he was inevitably falling.

"No!" he hollered again, grabbing her wrist and pulling her down with a thud. She dropped the syringe, which was emptied; the needle dripped. Her shining, liquidous eyes were inevitably looking into his. She could feel his fingers weakening around her wrist. She shuddered, and tears sprang to her eyes, glimmering and begging to be let out.

"Don't—" he spat, fighting madly to keep his eyes open. "I've lost Mycroft! I've lost Mycroft, I've lost Mary—" he seethed. He looked so angry with himself. "I can't—don't do this, Miss Adler. You don't have to do this; whatever my sister has told you...tell me, for God's sake," he said, managing to shove every agitated emotion back into the pit it had come from.

"Shhhh..." she whispered, smoothing his hair and running her fingers through the black curls: ruffling the locks in the way that always seemed to calm him down.

"Hush now, dear."

His hand finally fell from her wrist, and she bent down to press a prolonged kiss to his cheek. She was having the most difficult time warring against those persistent tears in the back of her head.

"I love you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," she whispered over him, "and this isn't your fault. Promise me that you'll at least remember that. It was never yours...it was mine." Caressing his cheek with wholehearted sensitivity, she whispered, "Don't say anything, love. Don't spoil it. This is how I want you to remember me...the woman who loved you."

She had tears peeking out of her eyes, but none of them jumped from the ledge to fall down her face. She kissed his cheek once more before she took her hand from his face and slowly rose to her feet.

"No!" he bellowed one last time before his eyes shut, making a drunken grab for her ankle that missed its mark. Then his memory was lost. He remembered no more, because Irene Adler disappeared through the doorway with the carpet bag in her hand, heels on her feet, and cellphone to her ear.

It was the last thing he saw before everything went black.


	31. A Good Man

"Sherlock? Sherlock, you okay? Jesus, you've been out for hours."

The detective's eyes opened slowly, but his head felt like a dumbbell. His tongue felt as big as his mouth, and trying to speak was unbearable.

"John..." he managed. His voice sounded horridly strangled. His arms were immovable, and his legs equally so. He was on the settee in the sitting room, and his memory was completely black.

Then he remembered.

"Where is she, John? Where is she?" he frantically questioned.

"Go to sleep, Sherlock. You need rest."

"No..." he said, fighting John's consolations. "No, John...where is she? Where's she gone? Did you see her go? John...John...what's happened?"

"No one saw her, Sherlock. She was gone when I got here, and you were out cold on the bloody floor. Whatever you two had a row about, I imagine it wasn't...particularly good," he said, his eyebrows popping up with a quick flourish.

"No...she's...she's gone. Eurus...Eurus...something happened. I need to see my sister."

"What d'you mean she's gone?"

"She's GONE, John! She's gone. For God's sakes, just shut up. I can't be bothered. I need to get to Sherrinford," he said. He now looked drunk in every sense of the word. His arms flailed as he tried to control them, his voice drifted in and out of use, and his eyes were open only half way. He fell off the sofa, making the wooden floorboards rattle with the impact.

"Sherlock, you can't even stand up—you're not getting to Sherrinford today, mate. C'mon, let me help you to bed," John said. He set Rosie down on the sofa as he helped Sherlock to his feet.

"What's the time, John?" Sherlock asked, a bit of drool falling out of his mouth. It landed on John's shoulder, and the doctor gagged.

"It's nearly ten, Sherlock. I found you at one o'clock. I came over as soon as you started ignoring my phone calls. She did this to you, then?"

"Yes, but only because I made her."

"Bloody ridiculous."

"It wasn't her fault, John!"

"Yeah, alright..." John whispered, rolling his eyes with nausea. They were ridiculous.

Getting the door to the bedroom open, he shoved the detective down upon the bed once they were inside. Forcing Sherlock's feet under the covers, he shook his head at his friend's insane marriage relationship.

"I don't know where she's gone, John. I don't know where..." Sherlock was muttering over and over, rubbing his face as if he were having a hangover.

"Sherlock, are you sure you didn't...you know, take things the wrong way? She might be back in the morning, or—"

"No—she's gone. She isn't coming back, John. She's gone."

John's mouth went dry. He couldn't understand. What the hell was happening?

"John...you have to help me find her, John...John?"

The doctor remembered himself.

"Yeah, I will, Sherlock. I will. Just...go to sleep. You need it. I'm ordering you. Go to bloody sleep. I'll come 'round in the morning and we'll talk then. Just...good night," he said, pulling the covers up to the detective's neck.

"Good night, John," he whispered, his mind already seeming to fall into the dark abyss of dreams. He was breathing through his mouth, and after a few minutes, John deduced he had finally drifted off.

Venturing into the sitting room, he pulled out his phone with the sole intention of calling his best friend's wife. He had snagged her number off of Sherlock's mobile once, when the detective hadn't been looking. He'd always saved it in case of...some kind of emergency.

Rosie climbed onto his lap, and John bumped his knee up and down to keep her amused.

"Come on..." he muttered, listening to the dial tone. "Pick up—just bloody pick up."

But then the man silently gasped.

"We're sorry; the number you have entered has been temporarily disconnected, changed, or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this message in error, please review the number and try again."

Her number was saved in his phone; it wasn't misdialed.

"No, no, no, no, no, no," he said, to himself, dialing the number again. Once more, it was the same. Her number had been disconnected.

This was ridiculous. Her mobile phone was everything. For years her only connection to Sherlock had been her mobile number, and now?

For the first time in all the time he had known her, having her phone number was useless.

Sherlock was right.

She was gone.

In the darkness where Sherlock could not see, the doctor's eyes were brimming with tears...brimming with the hurt he felt for his dear friend. He knew neither the detective nor the dominatrix had ever told the other, but he had seen it. They had loved each other. Sherlock still loved her. John was quite confident that she still loved him...wherever the hell she was or whatever the hell the circumstances were.

When John looked up, his mind painted a picture for him of something he desired to see more than anything at the present moment: he saw Mary standing in the hall that led to Sherlock's bedroom, leaning against the wall and staring at him and Rosie. The liquid in John's eyes was starting to spill, and his mouth was open in a silent gasp.

"He's lost it, John. This time...he's really lost it," Mary lamented, gesturing to the dark abyss down the hall where the man slept. She wiped her face. Her lips were burdened with sadness, and her eyes were wet.

"What do I do with them? What do I do with them, Mary?" he asked his dead wife. She smiled at him through her own veil of tears.

"Our Beast has lost his Beauty, John. You've got to help him find her again. You've got to help him, John Watson. Don't let him lose her like you lost me."

John swallowed, the lump in his throat growing larger by the minute. He sniffed, looked at his wife, and nodded.

"Mary, I—I..." his voice cracked in between. "How do I? I'm not a hero, Mary. I never have been. I don't think..." he leaned over to one side as his words stretched his mind, "I ever will be. What do you expect me to do, Mary? Why don't you tell me? I don't know why you even think...that I can. For...God's sake, I couldn't even save—" he stopped short. He put his hand over his mouth to stifle a sob.

"Jesus."

Mary looked at him sympathetically. Even from beyond the grave, all she wanted was to wrap her arms around her husband and dry his tears. But she only lived in his head, and his head wouldn't permit it.

"You'll be okay, John," she said, nodding reassuringly. "Yeah? You're gonna be fine. Alright? Because if there's one thing I know, it's that I can always count on my Baker Street boys."

"But that's only because...you tell me you can."

"Yeah, well—okay, maybe that's true," she said, winking playfully at him. Her teeth shone through her lips with a beautiful radiance. Her eyes sparkled with mirth.

"He's a monster, but he's our monster, John. And you've got to make things right with him and that...scary, mad woman. And you can because...well, because I say you can," she said. John's wet face had a grin breaking through the drops of water.

"I miss you, Mary. God knows...just how much," he burst out, kissing Rosie's cheek. The girl patted his face with infantine curiosity. John felt like looking at her was the same as looking at Mary. Turning back to the ghost of his wife, he let tears fall down his weatherworn face.

"I miss me, too, John," she said, somberly letting a grin grace her mouth. "But there's enough you still out there for the both of us. And you've got her," she added, nodding her blonde head at the other equally blond head in the room. John smiled into Rosie's gleaming eyes then turned his gaze back upon his wife.

Smiling with her heart on her face, she gushed, "You're a good man, John Watson. There isn't a better one I'd have chosen to raise our daughter. And there isn't a better man I'd have chosen to look after our little monster," she said, jerking her head down the hall toward Sherlock's bedroom.

John was having the most difficult time keeping his heart from blowing out of his chest. The sheer amount of love that had swollen there had made his soul triple in size.

Mary cocked her head at him, and once more, as she always had, added, "Now then...get the hell on with it."

John laughed, sniffled his nose and bounced Rosie once more on his knee.

"I will, Mary..." he said, his voice cracking. "I will."


	32. Abstract

The bed was cold the next morning when Sherlock's eyes opened. Her perfume on the sheets still occupied his nose, but the way it set his brain loose was blasphemy when there was no...her to go with it.

It was a cruel trick; a broken statue. The pale porcelain shards were lying on the floor; he could still see them, but the image itself was gone. She was only abstract now.

Theoretical.

Involuntarily throughout the night, he had reached out for her. His half-conscious self had been unable to remember the fact that there was nothing to reach for. His head was unfluffed. Her hand wasn't running through his hair to calm his nerves.

He had talked in his sleep; he spoke drunkenly to her of a dream in which she had given him the Judas kiss and left him dead on the floor. He had even heard her reply.

"Don't listen to the dreams, Mr. Holmes. Reality is much more pleasing."

He had thought for a brief moment that he had felt her lips and warm breath lightly dusting the crook of his neck, but when his eyes fluttered open with the strength of an infant who is straining to see for the first time, he found that he spoke to the air, and his intoxicated head had been the one who had answered him.

And now he was awake. The grey, weeping sky was casting an eerie, dull glow into the bedroom, and his eyes were still swollen with the effect of the drugs she had given him. He rubbed his shoulder. The place she had inserted the syringe was still tender, and when he touched the wound, he didn't understand why it poked at the inside of his chest.

The light fell through the window and landed on her side of the bed. It was empty, and all the sheets were wrapped around him as if he were some human burrito. He hadn't left any blankets for her, and that was dissatisfying. Where the hell was she anyway?

"Miss Adler?" he asked, his feet landing on the floor. He staggered a moment, but after getting the robe of blankets off him, he began to find his balance easier.

"Miss Adler?" he called again. The dream had been just that: a dream. It...it couldn't have been an actual reality.

Then it hit him. The recognition stabbed his brain, and he wanted to vomit. He remembered Eurus. He remembered coming home. He remembered how oddly Irene had behaved. And he remembered falling to the floor and her heels violently shaking the boards as she left him lying there: drugged and immobilized.

And he remembered that he really hadn't dreamt anything at all.

He went back onto the bed and sat there a moment on the edge, staring into the wall with a nondescript look blandly sitting on his face. His mind was as white as the sheets. His head wouldn't work properly. His hands were motionless at his sides, his head positioned straight forward, his feet pointing ahead like arrows. His mouth was an expressionless line of indifference, he inhaled precisely when he needed to, and his eyes blinked every three seconds exactly.

The door opened. It hadn't really been shut at all. John Watson gently pushed it forward, letting himself and Rosie in. He carried a cup of tea in his left hand and held Rosie on his right hip. On seeing Sherlock awake, the doctor's eyes widened and his mouth went dry with lack of knowing what words to say.

"So you're up, then?" John asked. He hadn't moved an inch from his spot in the door. Rosie sucked on her fingers and giggled at her godfather, who looked ghostly.

"I've only...just woken," he replied. John set the tea down on the nightstand and gently put Rosie onto the floor.

The little head of soft, blonde hair bobbed around on the floor for a moment, crawling around searching for something interesting to study. Suddenly she began crawling toward her godfather. Sherlock looked down at the child, who pulled herself up with his knees. She giggled into his eyes, and he let himself smile a little.

"Hallo, dear Watson," he said, sighing into the young girl's joyous face. She grabbed his nose, pinched it with all her might, and tried to yank it off his face.

"Oh no. Ah ah ah, Rosie," John tutted, removing her nose from Sherlock's face and picking her up again. "We don't...pull on people's noses. Say you're sorry to uncle Sherlock."

"Sowwy. Sowwy..." she said, without even looking in the detective's general direction. "Sowwy, sowwy, sowwy...sowwy...sowwy, sowwy, sowwy..." she kept murmuring over and over in her small, adorable voice. John bounced her in his arms with as much strength as he could manage, but seeing Sherlock in the mess he was in turned his limbs to gelatin.

"Sherlock...how...are you feeling?" John asked, coming to sit next to Sherlock on the bed. He pulled a toy from his breast pocket and handed it to Rosie. The child laughed at the sight of the teether, shoving it eagerly into her toothless mouth.

John continued when the man made no reply, "How are you...holding up? Are you...doing okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine. I am fine. Why wouldn't I be fine?"

"Right, you're fine. You're always fine. Why do I even ask, eh? You're great."

Sherlock huffed.

The doctor sniffed, stroking his daughter's hair. He glanced at Sherlock, who was looking more and more like an animatronic representation of himself. The cold pallor of his face gave the impression that a vampire had drained him of all his blood the previous night. The man's jaw was set, and his teeth clenched.

"You don't...you don't look fine. You...look sick, Sherlock. You look sick."

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not. You're not fine, and it isn't the weather that's doing it to you."

"Then what is, John? Why don't you enlighten me if you're so clever?"

Despite the cold, hard image, John could tell the man's head wasn't as vacant as his exterior. His head was a painting; Psyche was splashing chaotic colors all over the canvas of his brain.

"Sherlock, you need to tell me what you're feeling."

"I'm not feeling anything. I'm a machine, remember? That's what you called me once, John. A machine. And machines don't feel, do they? I'm fine. I'm not feeling anything."

"Shut up, Sherlock. Shut up right now."

"Why?"

"Because you need to listen to me! That's why!" the doctor yelled, making Rosie's lower lip wobble. He shushed the child before going on.

"You need to listen! That's what you need! The only woman who has ever mattered to you is gone! She's gone, Sherlock. She's left, and she isn't set on coming back. It would make things a lot easier if you would stop telling yourself that you don't care. And that you don't feel. Because you do. You have a heart, and if you didn't, then Moriarty wouldn't have taken her from you! You care, Sherlock. You bloody care, and you still do. You loved her. You do love her! And it's about time you started realizing it."

"John—"

"Do you hear me, Sherlock? You've got to own up to this, and you've got to own up to this now."

"John."

"What?"

"Let me say something."

The doctor looked at his friend. He wondered if he had said too much. The look on Sherlock's face was agony.

"I need to say something. Just please...let me say it."

John scrunched his nose in thought.

"Yeah, okay. Go ahead."

Sherlock breathed deep through his nose, putting his hands over his mouth as he exhaled. John couldn't be sure if his eyes were watery or just glossy from the tumultuous night of restlessness. Nothing emotional followed, so the doctor decided not to make any conclusions. Sherlock's brow was smooth, his eyes were round, his mouth was open. It was coming. He always looked like this before he said something monumental.

"l never told her, John."

John blinked. Rosie started making irritable noises, so John hoisted her into his arms and stood up by the door to keep her quiet. Babies seemed to like it when you stood up with them.

"Never...told her what?" he asked, leaning against the door post.

Sherlock looked into his friend's face, demanding him to put two-and-two together.

"Don't pretend you don't know what I mean."

"No, I don't. What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean."

"Well maybe I want to hear you say it."

Sherlock was almost glowering at him.

"You're trying to trap me, John."

"Yeah, maybe I am."

John sniffed, eyeing Sherlock with severe inspection. He tapped his foot on the floor irritably.

"What kind of husband am I?" Sherlock asked. The word "husband" felt disgusting as it left his mouth. It was horrid to say.

"Not a very good one, I'd imagine," the doctor replied, briskly. "Sleepless nights of deduction...horrible hygienic habits...the odd eyeball in the fridge..."

"Are you trying to comfort me, John? Because you're really not doing a good job."

"Oh God, no," he said, coming back to sit beside his friend on the mattress and looking into his fatigued face. "I'm trying...to recruit you."

"I've said that before, haven't I?" Sherlock asked, a smirk playing on his lips.

"I wouldn't have said it if you hadn't."

The two men and the baby sat together on the bed, each one thinking their own thoughts. The tallest of the three was swimming in confusion and misunderstanding. The smaller of the three was trying to figure out how to get the words in his brain out through his mouth. The smallest of the three was trying to think through a way to desecrate the object in her hands.

"We've gotta find her, Sherlock. We need to start looking," John said, rubbing his bulbous nose in Rosie's thin hair and sniffing. She giggled.

"No, we won't," Sherlock replied.

John turned to his friend in shock. His mouth hung open, demanding an explanation. Sherlock could tell he was on the point of yelling again.

"What do you mean, 'we won't?' Sherlock, your bloody wife has gone for reasons she wouldn't tell you, and you have absolutely no desire whatsoever to search for her?"

"As ever, John; you see, but you do not observe. Of course, I want to find her. Of course, I want her back. But there was something she told me. Something she...warned me against."

John blinked. "And what's that?"

"She told me not to follow her."

"And for once in your life you're going to listen? Trust you to obey a sociopath."

"She's not a sociopath, John. Do your research."

"Well never mind what she is! For God's sake, Sherlock! She's your wife!"

"And she's also the cleverest woman I've ever met."

John's protests were all stopped in his throat. He had never heard Sherlock say anything of her in this regard before. It halted his mind in its tracks to hear him say it out loud. This was progress.

Sherlock continued, "And if she's told me not to follow her...then..."

His voice grew low and solemn.

"God knows I won't."

Sherlock bit his lip, and John watched as he grabbed an armful of sheets in his fists and slowly, quietly clenched them. His eyes were staring hard into the floor, trying to see through the boards, it would seem.

But one thing's for certain," he said, turning and looking out the window.

"What's that?" John asked, following his gaze. The rain was softly caressing the glass.

"I need to know what Eurus said to her."

"What do you think went on?" John asked. "I mean, besides the fact that two grossly self-absorbed females who also happen to be sisters-in-law were left alone to have a chat in a windowless room without supervision...I imagine things...didn't exactly end well."

"As do I."

John bit his lip.

"But honestly," he queried, "how could Eurus have said anything to piss her off? Irene'd never have let it get under her skin. Not that woman. The woman, sorry."

"Eurus didn't just piss her off. She did more than that," Sherlock replied, scratching his hair.

"What did she do, then?" John asked, his upper lip jutting out and overshadowing his lower one. His brow was a wrinkled blanket.

Sherlock's expression clouded over.

"She convinced her."

John was silent a moment, letting his exhales ruffle Rosie's thin hairs.

"It must have been one bloody good argument," he concluded. "No one convinces Irene Adler unless she wants to be convinced. She won't do something she doesn't want to, Sherlock. She's not like that. She never has been. Let's not go and forget Karachi," he added, jerking his eyebrows to the sky in remembrance.

"No," the detective responded. "She won't do something she doesn't want to; yes, that's true. But she also told me once that she would never let me have her camera phone."

"But she did give it to you...oh my God," John breathed, coming to the realization. "...and on Christmas night...oh, Jesus. Sherlock, you think—"

"I don't know. All I know is what happened last time."

"But she hasn't died; she hasn't gone and faked her death. Nothing's happened to her."

"Not yet, at least. Perhaps she left to prevent something from happening to her. Eurus...she must have said something to throw her off. I need to see my sister."

"Well what if she won't tell you anything? What if she...refuses to?"

"She won't refuse me. Not after she made me a promise. She promised to help me. That's what makes this entire affair all the more confusing."

John pursed his lips, hoisting Rosie onto his hip and heading out the door. Sherlock was behind him. Something caught his eye behind the bedroom door. Closing the door on the doctor and Rosie, he found a note sticking to the back of it.

"Oi, Sherlock—" John protested, fearing the detective had shut him out again.

"Hold on a minute, John. There's something here..." he said, pulling the note off the door and reading the message upon it.

Goodbye, Mr. Holmes. For the second time.

There was an imprint of lipstick on the bottom of the paper where she must have kissed it. He found his nose slowly being drawn toward the stationery, which smelled heavily of her perfume. He quickly inhaled through his nose and was disgusted with himself when he found his eyes closed and his mind filled with potent memories.

"Sherlock? What is it?"

He shoved the paper into his pocket and threw the door open.

"Nothing. Thought I saw something, but...I was wrong. Just the light glinting off the wood, I think. Caught my eye. Shall we go to Sherrinford then?" he asked, turning the conversation in an entirely new direction.

"Er—yeah, what about Rosie?"

"Bring her along."

"And how am I supposed to bring a baby to a prison, Sherlock?"

"You still have a Bjorn, don't you?"

"She's nearly outgrown it by now."

"There's one upstairs. I'll get it. She hasn't outgrown it yet!" Sherlock hollered as he strode past the man and towards the spare bedroom upstairs.

"How can you know that?" John hollered back.

"I checked! Just now! She'll still fit!"

The doctor groaned, coddling his daughter and laughing to himself. Now he had two children to look after, as Mary had so kindly pointed out last night. Ah, there she was again; sitting cross legged on Sherlock's bed.

"The game is on, John. He's waiting..." she said, smiling and pointing out the door. "Oh, and John," she added, stopping him on his way out.

"Y-yeah?"

"Mind the baby."

"Yeah, okay."

"She's not old enough for chips, so don't give her any."

"Yeah, I won't."

"And make sure she stays on you at all times. Don't you lose her, you idiot."

"I won't Mary," he said. "I won't."

"You do realize you're going to end up helping him find Irene Adler, don't you?"

John sniffed, and let his mind roll around for a moment. A slight smile was picking up the corners of his mouth as the realization swept over him.

He laughed, and with a wink, replied, "Yeah. Of course, I do."

And with that, the ghost of his wife had disappeared.


	33. The Girl in the Cage

"You mean there's no...way for us to see what actually happened down there?" John asked, staring Governor McIlroy intensely in the eyes. The doctor's little arms would have been crossed over his chest, only a small infant now occupied the said space on his body.

"I'm afraid not, Doctor Watson," McIlroy replied, shaking his head. "None of the cameras were online during the conversation. I'm afraid all of it is lost, except for that which was committed to the memories of the participants."

"But that's—that's bloody stupid. I mean, wasn't there some...I dunno...some kind of secret camera that Eurus didn't know about?"

"I'm afraid Eurus knows about everything in this place, Doctor Watson. There was nothing we could have done," McIlroy replied, biting his lip. John was dumbfounded, and resorted to running his fingers through Rosie's thin hair.

"I need to see her, governor," Sherlock said, inhaling deeply. "You've no idea what she's done. I need to speak with her, and I need to speak to her now," he demanded, anger tickling the low tones of his voice.

"Of course, Mr. Holmes. But allow me to tell you something before you go down," he said, fingering the top button of his coat. His brow was cloudy as he looked at Sherlock.

"She was making odd noises last night; the surveillance cameras picked up what almost sounded like blubbering. She was facing the wall, so we could not see her face to look for tears, but it sounded as though she had been crying. I cannot say for sure, but I thought you ought to know."

He paused and studied Sherlock's face, which was devoid of any kind of emotional signals. He pushed his luck and continued speaking.

"I'm only saying that I think you ought to be easy on her, sir. You don't know the details of what's happened, and I wouldn't want a division to arise over rashly made conclusions."

Sherlock's mouth made a popping noise.

"I'll be the judge of that," he curtly replied, readjusting his coat.

"She's been handled very cruelly throughout this entire ordeal," the governor interjected. "And you mustn't judge her for what's happened with your wife."

Sherlock's eyes looked like that of a predator's when it turns on its prey.

"What happened with my wife," he spat, "is none of your business, and I don't believe I asked you for your opinion on the matter. This is something I wish to discuss with my sister, not you. And I intend to discuss it with her now. Kindly have your men show me down, Governor McIlroy," he ended, taking up his violin case from where it sat on the glass table.

"Be careful, Mr. Holmes. I wouldn't want something to go wrong," the governor replied, his voice low and foreboding.

"I'll take my chances. Shall I go?" he huskily asked, turning toward the door.

The sentry at the door eyed the governor hesitantly, but at receiving a nod from the official, he opened the door for the detective.

"Just know, Mr. Holmes," McIlroy said, "if I detect any kind of danger from your interaction with Eurus, I have the legal authority to remove you."

"Is that a threat, governor?" Sherlock asked, his eyes challenging the man.

"That depends upon your actions. Take it the way you will."

Sherlock's gaze lingered for a moment, trying to decide how to interpret the governor's words.

...

The girl in the cage was standing precisely in its middle and slowly playing an eerie tune on her violin, her face stricken and gaunt. She looked as though she were starving, despite the fact that she had eaten her portion that morning. Her breaths were shaky, and her violin trembled ever so slightly on her weak shoulder.

Her eyes looked up from the strings for a moment, as her ears sharpened in the recognition of a sound: the elevator.

At the registration of the noise in her sharp mind, the melody she played became louder. Each stroke of the bow against the strings became quicker than the last, making the music fall into something like madness.

She heard the door open, and she heard his soft footfalls approaching the glass. She didn't dare look into his face, for she already knew why he was there and what he was thinking. Although she faced his direction, she kept her eyes fixed on the strings, trying to ignore his presence.

He spoke not a word, but studied his sister through dimmed eyes. She chanced a glimpse into his face, finding the quiet storm sitting on his countenance. She continued to play, refusing to look at him again.

"Eurus."

She didn't answer. She was determined not to answer. Her pulse was ringing inside her ears, banging against her head, and pounding inside her chest.

"Eurus."

Once more, silence from the girl within the cage.

"Don't pretend you can't see me," came his quiet voice. He set his violin case on the floor beside him. The calm inside his throat was alarming, and she couldn't tell if it was honest tranquility or well-executed restraint.

"I can't," she replied, staring into the violin. "I can't see you, because...I'm not looking at you. So therefore, I cannot see you."

"Eurus, do you know what you've done?"

The melody ended abruptly as the woman let the violin fall gracefully from her shoulder. She looked up at Sherlock. The bow in her left hand looked like a miniature sword. The detective couldn't tell if the light was bouncing off her eyes due to water standing there.

"I know perfectly well what I've done, Sherlock. I've sent your wife away...I've sent here away, and I don't think she's set on coming back. You can thank me later."

A football shoved itself into Sherlock's stomach, and he couldn't find his breath.

"Th-thank you? Thank you for what? Eurus, I have nothing to thank you for."

"You have everything to thank me for."

"Would you care, dear sister, to give an example?"

She cocked her head with uncanny mechanics, and her blank eyes shot through his frame. She let the violin fall out of her hands, and it clattered noisily on the hard floor. He didn't understand what was happening.

"I can name several, but...well, I don't think I will."

She watched his eyes blaze under the blanket of serenity he was trying to hide under.

"Oh, I don't care if you hate me, Sherlock," she said, painfully nonchalant. "I don't care if you want me dead. I don't care if you're angry with me or if you wish I would never have spoken with Irene Adler. I...don't...care. Because I did it for the best reason in the world. And one day, you will thank me."

"Eurus—"

"Do me a favor and don't follow her. I told her to tell you that, and I hope she listened. She seems like she enjoys misbehaving, and although I pressed that point quite hard, I'm not sure if she followed through. Never was, to be honest."

"Eurus—"

"Did she tell you? Did she tell you not to follow her?"

Sherlock swallowed what little saliva he had in his dry mouth. He sniffed at the scentless air, trying to fill his lungs with something other than the stinging scent of sterilizing chemicals.

"She did," he replied. Eurus sighed, and her shoulders relaxed a little.

"Then listen to her. She's a clever little woman."

"I know."

Eurus laughed. "Ah, Sherlock. You've no idea...no idea just how clever." She sighed, stopping to think a moment...to remind herself of Irene's likeness. "I like her," she concluded.

Sherlock felt sick.

"Eurus, what happened yesterday? You will tell me what you said to her, and you will tell me now," he demanded, trying to keep his voice at the same tone. "She's my wife, for God's sake. I've a right to know."

She huffed impatiently.

"No, Sherlock," she concluded, "...no. You really don't understand, do you? This is all part of the game. And besides, you only married her to save England. I don't see why you're so upset. Did you really love her all that much? Ugh, look at all those teeny tiny emotions running amok all over your face...I'm getting dizzy trying to keep track of them all."

She looked absolutely disgusted at his presence, and what he wanted more than anything was for the glass wall between them to be gone. His heart was seething violently inside his chest, his hands nearly crushing the violin he was still holding.

She whined, "Well...since I have spoken with her, I believe I promised you information?" she asked. "Information about the game? About the case? I hope you're ready to take on a clever little puzzle, Sherlock."

"Eurus, you're being ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous!"

"Does this mean you don't want the information? I can always save it for someone who cares."

"No! Shut up! You will tell me what you and Miss Adler discussed, and you will tell me now. What have you done? Why have you done this?"

"For reasons you will better understand later! Information is waiting, Sherlock..."

"Eurus!" he screamed at the top of his lungs. Her eyes widened in fright as she realized he was really and truly bitterly angry.

Her ears pricked up. Someone was getting into the elevator and was coming down; they were coming to take Sherlock away, and most likely, they wouldn't let him back in. She panicked, realizing she only had a few moments left to tell him what she needed to.

"Sherlock, listen to me quickly. They're coming, and you'll go quietly. Just hear me and remember these words, dear brother. Please! Listen before they come. Remember, Sherlock: the road to St. Paul's is the road to hell. Promise me that you've remembered it..."

"What? What the hell are you on about?"

"The road to St. Paul's is the road to hell, Sherlock. HAVE YOU remembered it?" she asked, urgency spurring her voice into a brisk canter. The elevator was very nearly there...her heart was racing as she heard it descend.

"I've remembered it, Eurus, I've remembered it; but what does it mean? What do you mean? St. Paul's is a cathedral...it wasn't built to lead people to hell it takes them toward heaven! Eurus, what do you mean?"

Eurus swallowed, and her fleshy lips parted slowly.

"The time is coming, Sherlock. The time is coming."

Sherlock could also hear the elevator growing closer, and he ran towards the glass so that his hands met the window. His hurried breathing was making little fogged circles on the surface.

"It is nearly upon us, Sherlock," Eurus went on, coming closer to the glass as well, although her movements were slow and seemed carefully chosen. "You've not the time to worry about your wife. You've London to worry about, dear brother. If you love Irene Adler, then the very last thing you would want to do is to go look for her."

"Where has she gone, Eurus?"

No answer from the girl in the cage. She only watched on silently with the air of an observant doll.

He banged his fist on the glass, her eyes shook in surprise, and he groaned under his breath. To his complete and utter annoyance, his wife's note in his pocket was ever drawing his attention. The elevator was settling on the ground level where they stood.

"Alright, alright; I'll play fair," he spluttered. "Tell me more, Eurus—tell me more about St. Paul's...what does it mean? What does the 'road to hell' mean?"

Eurus's eyes were glossy, and it looked like she was about to cry.

"You did it without my help the last time, Sherlock. You can do so again, brother."

"Eurus, tell me more."

He stared at her with the blankest of looks on his face, unable to tell her that she was right.

She began to sing in response.

"I that am lost,

Oh, who will find me?

Deep down below

The old beech tree.

Help succor me now,

The east winds blow.

Sixteen by six, brother,

And under we go."

"Eurus, please!" Sherlock shouted, as the elevator opened and his arms were seized by two sentries. Straining to catch his sister's eye, he pulled his entire weight forward to combat the men who had been sent down to take him up.

"Eurus! It took me so many years...so many years to solve that riddle. You can't expect me to do it again..." he stopped, wetted his lips. The hands were still gripping his arms. "I need your help!" he spluttered. "For God's sake, I need your help!"

She turned, tears officially dampening her face, and replied, "No you don't, dear brother. After all, I don't think you ever did."

"Eurus—!"

She picked up the violin and began to play "The Musgrave Ritual," picking up where her voice had left off. The elevator closed, shutting off his voice from the reach of her ears.

Breaking free of the men holding him, his forearm slammed against the doors as they closed, making a muffled echo rattle the small elevator. He let his arm rest against the metal for a moment, his breathing growing more and more steady as he tried to calm his beating heart.

He didn't understand...yet. He was going to make himself understand. He repeated the phrase over and over again. He could hear Eurus's voice resounding in his head: The road to St. Paul's is the road to hell. Loads of scenarios raced through his head. The literal roads surrounding St. Paul's...were they roads to hell? And what did hell mean? Fire? Pain? Explosion? Was Moriarty planning to blow up St. Paul's? But that would have made Eurus's clue too simple...

Why couldn't it have been a little more specific?

The elevator continued to ascend, and Sherlock's mind went with it, bouncing off the walls of his head and blazing with deductions. The men inside with him were silent, keeping their hands off him and standing against the back wall.

When the room finally stopped moving upwards, the doors opened and Sherlock charged toward the office he had left not ten minutes prior.

"Thank you, governor," he said, his voice rich with sarcasm. "I certainly hope Eurus's mental health means more to you than the safety of London. Do you understand anything that is happening? Do you?"

The governor huffed impatiently.

"Mr. Holmes—"

But he did not have the opportunity to say anymore, for John came forward with his phone hovering over his ear. His mouth was agape, and a light smile held up the corners of his lips.

"Sherlock—" he said, capturing the detective's attention. Seeing the delicate smile playing on the doctor's mouth, Sherlock's mind flew from the present agony of confusion and raced toward the joy sitting on John Watson's face. His voice found itself after a few moments of blank staring and computing.

"Mycroft's alive," he said, his mouth ascending slowly at the tips.

John laughed. "It's your mum, Sherlock. She's called. It's Mycroft. He's alive. And he's...well, he's bloody come out of his coma."

Sherlock nearly started laughing along with John. The burden Eurus had thrown on his soul felt a little less heavy at this news. He exhaled.

"Well," he said, blowing every bit of tense air out of the room. "I never thought I'd be happy to say this, but God he sure knows how to keep me waiting. I'll be back, governor. And the next time I expect to be given a little more time. Didn't anyone ever tell you never to interfere with family matters?"

"This does not concern your relationship with your sister, Mr. Holmes," he bellowed, adjusting his necktie. His furry eyebrows were narrowed. "It has everything to do with her health. I hope you come with a bit more decency next time," he added.

"Of course, governor," Sherlock replied, his voice dripping with anything but respect. "You can be sure I will, especially if my brother comes with me," he added, throwing the words at Governor McIlroy's face and watching as they burned a hole in his head. He grinned to himself...Mycroft's name literally opens doors.

"Of course, Mr. Holmes," the governor managed, clearing his throat after a moment of awkward silence.

"Much better. Come along, John," Sherlock said, swinging around towards the doors and leading John out back to the exit. Rosie was laughing as her father trotted along after his friend, bouncing her in the little "papoose."

"According to your mum, the first thing he said when he woke up was your name," John said, catching his breath as he fell in step alongside Sherlock, who made no reply.

"Of course..." John hesitated, scratching behind an ear, "you're gonna have to tell him about what's happened. You know...with Irene and everything."

"You get too far ahead of yourself, John. Let's just focus on the fact that he's alive, shall we?" Sherlock asked, his coat flying as he practically sped down the cold corridor.

"Oh sure," John chuffed, shrugging and gently nudging a pacifier into Rosie's mouth. "And I'm sure he'll be thrilled to hear that his plan to save England went to hell and that he's alive to see it all happen. He'll be hysterical."

"No need to be sarcastic, John. If there's one thing I know how to do, it's break news to Mycroft." He smiled into the man's face, which by now was looking a bit perturbed.

"And why is that?"

Sherlock smirked.

"Because it's been my job description since I was two years old."

At this John laughed outright, his nose wrinkling in unison with his forehead. Sherlock kept on walking ahead, and John stopped for a moment to take in the sight. The man's humor was lighter. His head was higher. His steps were faster. His eyes were looking upward and his mouth wasn't so very grim.

"He's got one of them back. That's something. Even if it is Mycroft," he heard Mary say as her ghost came and stood next to him.

"Yeah, he seems...different, doesn't he?"

Mary coughed on a giggle.

"I'd say," she said, her face beaming. "But better catch that dominatrix, eh, John? The posh boy'll be missing her, I expect. Once she's back he'll be a new man. You doing okay? Still miss me?"

John smiled as he imagined himself looking into his wife's shining face. She was an angel now...still on their side but now one of them.

"Yeah, I'm okay..."

Mary began to tut her tongue before John added with a finger pointed and an eyebrow raised, "and yeah I still miss you."

She laughed like a sprite, and he took in the sound of her laugh ringing across the walls of his mind before it was gone.

"John?" Sherlock asked, coming back from around a corner after a moment of realizing his companion wasn't there. "Don't go and get lost, John. It isn't punctual. We've a sick man to visit."

"Yeah, I know. I'm coming."

And he raced after Sherlock Holmes, clutching his baby daughter to his chest, and wearing the grandest of smiles that he'd worn all week.


	34. The Ice Melts

A/N: For those of you (if any of you) who saw the author's note this afternoon about me losing this entire document off of my hard drive, have no fear! I recovered it using EaseUS for Mac, and everything is back to normal! Progress has resumed, and here is the newest chapter. Cheers to you all, and I hope you enjoy this chapter. :)

Emily x

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

"Well, it's about time. Isn't it, brother mine?"

They hadn't even reached the open door before the voice of Mycroft Holmes invaded their ears and made their hearts beat a little faster. His voice was almost a confirmation of the thing they had doubted and had wanted to see for themselves.

Entering the little room, they found Mycroft sitting up in his bed with his hands precariously folded in his lap and a smug grin on his face. The grin said a lot. It almost seemed to laugh in the face of whoever had attempted to kill him. It would take more than a bullet to stop Mycroft Holmes.

Sherlock shook his head at the sight of his brother. He was glad to have him back alive, but he could tell things were already turning back to normal in their relationship.

"They brought me flowers," Mycroft said, gesturing pathetically to the bouquets of well wishes placed on his bedside table. "I never asked them to. I never liked…flowers. But I'm afraid I don't see any from you, though, do I?"

"You hate flowers."

Mycroft's smile broadened.

"Yes," he hissed. "So, I guess I'm to say 'thank you?'"

Sherlock scoffed.

"Say whatever you want. How are you feeling, Mycroft? It's been nearly two weeks."

"Has it? Time flies when one is unconscious. I hope I didn't frighten you?"

"Not at all," Sherlock replied, his hands deep in his pockets and his face wearing a look of unconcern. John's ears were on fire, and he couldn't stop himself from blurting his thoughts out loud.

"He's been worried sick about you, Mycroft. He won't bloody say it, but he has been."

Sherlock looked violated.

"I have not!" he quietly retorted, his mouth flying open and his face spelling the words "insulted."

"Yes, you have," the doctor insisted, his lips puckering as his patience wore thin.

Sherlock rolled his eyes when he caught sight of Mycroft grinning maliciously at him. The brother's eyes seemed to say, "I got you, brother mine."

"Thank you, Doctor Watson," Mycroft droned, his words leaving his mouth with condescension trailing behind each syllable, "for your incredible honesty. It is valued in such a Machiavellian society."

"Ohhhh," Sherlock groaned, refusing to look into his brother's face. "For God's sake. Can't you ever learn to leave political science at the office?"

"No, I don't think so. But I will ask: how are things coming? I've had no news of you, unless you count dear mummy and daddy kissing and hugging and asking how I was unable to tell them of your marriage. They seemed so insulted. The poor things."

"And what did you tell them?"

"That it was a government matter, and that I simply had no other option."

"Dear God. The poet, as ever."

"Well, what else was I to tell them?"

"And there is the perfect picture of my brother's diplomatic expertise, John," Sherlock said, a laugh escaping his lips. "I sometimes wonder how Britain was able to negotiate anything over the past decade." John laughed as he crossed his arms. Mycroft only grinned at his little brother like a man who is proud of being drunk.

"And, of course, how is our dear Miss Adler? Should I expect any additions to the number of Baker street residents next summer?" Mycroft asked as though he were a king tentatively questioning his subjects as to whether or not they had paid their taxes as commanded.

The question posed, however, made Sherlock and John exchange incredibly nondescript glances and their tongues stuck to the rooves of their mouths.

"Ugh, God. She's having twins, isn't she? I always knew you had it in you, Sherlock."

Sherlock came forward and sat in a chair beside Mycroft's bed.

"She's gone, Mycroft."

The aloof humor vanished from his face, and he looked confused.

"What do you mean she's…gone?"

"She's gone. She's left."

"But that is not…that's not possible. That is simply not possible."

John bumped Rosie up and down in her papoose and cleared his throat.

"Yeah, well…start believing," he said, smiling uncomfortably. "She left yesterday. Drugged Sherlock, told her not to follow him, and left without saying where she was going."

Mycroft's mouth was a cave.

"You mean to tell me that she left without giving any reason as to why?"

"None whatsoever," Sherlock replied.

"This is ridiculous. Damn ridiculous. So she's gone, then, has she? I can have her located. She can't do this. She simply cannot do this. I can have her taken by the Ukrainians, and I damn well should have her taken by the Ukrainians. Do you have any idea how she has betrayed my trust in doing so?"

Mycroft was not strong enough to yell, but if he was, he would have. His voice was straining to reach its current level of sound. He was trying to continue speaking, and it looked like his mouth was trying to enunciate the word "how," but no sound came out of his throat. He gave up presently.

"She spoke with Eurus, Mycroft."

"What do you mean 'she spoke with Eurus?'"

The man massaged his head, and tried to get his thoughts out of his mouth.

"Ah, yes…I told you to pay her a visit. I didn't expect you to bring your wife along, but…what does our little sister make of all this?"

"She wanted to speak with Miss Adler alone. Unsupervised."

"Why?"

"She promised me information in exchange for a conversation with her."

"AND?"

"The day she spoke with her…Miss Adler was gone not an hour after the conversation's conclusion."

Mycroft was trying to remain calm, but his voice grew louder and was now classified as a yell.

"And you authorized this? You authorized a conversation between our sister and your wife? What the devil, Sherlock?! Do you have any idea what you've just done?"

"She said she had spoken with Moriarty and had information for me! You were unconscious—unlikely to make it through; some thought as good as dead—and I was left! What was I to do, Mycroft?"

"And you believed her? You believed that our sister, who is locked up in one of the tightest prisons in the world, had outside information from James Moriarty?" Midway through his train of thought, he began laughing…slowly turning Sherlock's insides with each chuckle.

"Of course you believed her," he went on. "I should have expected this from you. For God's sake, Sherlock: I hope you've learnt your lesson."

"Christ, Mycroft!" John butted in, his head swimming with the excessive arrogance he had inhaled. "You're a bit too hard on the people who want to help. Can you, just for once, try to imagine what it's been like for the past few days? Is it possible for you to think about someone who isn't yourself? Just for once? You would have done the same thing Sherlock did. Oh wait, hang on—you did once, didn't you? Gave Eurus…a conversation with Moriarty? Unsupervised conversation? Am I missing something, or is this is starting to sound familiar?"

Mycroft's breathing grew raspy and agitated.

"This does not concern you, Doctor Watson,"

"Right, that'll be enough," he cut in, ignoring Mycroft's comment and making his opponent's nose flare. "Sherlock, why don't you tell your brother the information Eurus gave you? He might find it interesting."

"Yes, Sherlock; do tell what kind of information was so invaluable?" Mycroft mimicked, interlocking his fingers and sarcastically perking up in bed.

The younger brother rolled his eyes, his heart sinking into his feet. He looked at John, who was shushing Rosie on the papoose; the child was growing impatient.

"She said that 'the road to St. Paul's is the road to hell,' and I was unable to procure anything else from her as I was extracted by your dear governor McIlroy, who saw my presence unfit for Eurus's mental health."

"What kind of rubbish is this? 'The road to St. Paul's is the road to hell?' That sentence is what I lost one of my most trusted agents over? You realize, Sherlock, that our sister could simply be playing you again? Why would she care if she lied to you? She knows how important of an asset Miss Adler is, and there was nothing to stop her from ruining our plans. Absolutely nothing. You've walked right into her little game. I should have expected this."

He cradled his forehead in his hands, sighing heavily.

"Do you have any idea—"

"Mycroft—"

"Of all the times I could have gone and gotten shot…it had to be now, didn't it? Of all the damned things…how could you be so stupid? You always were so stupid."

"This is why you were shot. Because this had to happen while you were unconscious. This was played, Mycroft. Played by Moriarty. YOU were a piece on his chess board."

Mycroft scoffed. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"He had you shot because he needed this to happen. You weren't the victim of a random shooting. You were the victim of careful selection. Moriarty somehow knew that if Miss Adler's cover was compromised, the only one she could go to for protection was you. And you weren't there. You were unconscious. He probably wanted you dead."

Mycroft struggled to find words. His breath caught in his throat, and his eyes seemed to tell Sherlock that he agreed. John looked back and forth between the two brothers, trying to decipher what their eyes might be saying.

"I needed you, Mycroft."

The elder brother looked…touched…if the word could be applied to the walking figure of organization and order that was Mycroft Holmes. John's mouth dropped open a bit at hearing Sherlock admit to having needed someone. The detective swallowed uncomfortably, realizing the effect his words were having.

"I didn't want you to die," he added, swallowing after the last word left his lips.

Mycroft laughed. "To be honest, Sherlock, I didn't want me to die either. Not exactly convenient for the welfare of the British nation, now is it?"

"No, I mean—" the detective stopped short, taking a deep sniff of stale, hospital air. "I mean that I didn't want you to die. That's what I mean."

"Always that sentiment, Sherlock."

"I am what I am," he replied, studying his brother's robotic gaze.

Mycroft looked puzzled, a small smile slowly begging to burst into a full-blown grin, but he was having trouble deciding. There went his chest…feeling all warm again.

"You flatter me, brother mine."

The younger laughed.

"Sometimes you will never know the value of a moment until it becomes a memory," he said, his gaze softening as he looked at his healthy, very much alive older brother.

"Dr. Seuss, isn't it? A bit trivial for you, eh, Sherlock? Children's books were never your forte."

"It gets the point across."

Mycroft laughed. He smoothed some of the blankets in an attempt to occupy the motionless, soundless atmosphere. John coughed in an attempt to help him along.

A thin voice cut everyone's thoughts.

"Mycroft Holmes…"

Sherlock and John turned from where they were standing at Mycroft's bedside to find Lady Smallwood. At the sight of Mycroft awake, alive, and not unconscious, she strode toward the bedside, lowered her face to his, and pressed a long, firm kiss to his lips.

Sherlock wanted to start coughing. What the hell?

Mycroft wasn't resisting, but his hands in his lap were suddenly open and gripping the sheets in horror. What's more, Lady Smallwood's lips didn't seem intent on letting go any time soon. John cleared his throat, turning away towards the door…this was something not mean to be observed by human eyes. Mycroft Holmes being kissed by an actual, living woman. If Sherlock and Irene had been weird enough…this…?

He glanced at Sherlock, who looked like he was hallucinating. Catching John's eye, it looked like the detective was almost begging to be vacated from the room.

"You've no idea what you've done to me, Mycroft Holmes," came Lady Smallwood's voice, holding the man's bony fingers in one of her soft, porcelain hands.

"Alicia…" Mycroft said after a moment of bewildered comprehension. The two men had expected that he would look in disgust at her sudden burst of affection, but he looked more confused than anything else. He inhaled uncomfortably then said, "Oh my…what have you done?"

"Since when do you call me Alicia?" she asked.

"Since now," he replied, and Sherlock almost started laughing when he saw the back of Mycroft's hand slowly stroke Lady Smallwood's cheek. John's eyes were enormous.

Sherlock and John noticed how the two of them were simply staring into the other's eyes, and John made a motion that they ought to be going.

Sherlock followed after him as they slowly edged out of the hospital room, leaving his brother alone with his…his what? Whatever Lady Smallwood was to Mycroft, it wasn't simply business related anymore. That, at least, was certain.

As soon as they had cleared the room and were out of earshot, the two men burst out laughing. This also spurred the infant on John's chest into a fit of jolly giggles. Her father was snorting through his nose, and Sherlock's laughs were ringing out of his mouth and bouncing off the walls. He wondered if the sound was travelling into Mycroft's room…and that thought made him laugh even more.

"What," John exclaimed after catching his breath, "exactly just happened?" His stomach caught on fire again, and he continued laughing hysterically. Rosie was still gurgling into his chest. Sherlock wiped his eyes, which were wet with humorous dew.

"To be honest, I've no idea," he said in between chortles.

"Did you see the way she just kissed him like that? Holy Mary…" John said, holding a finger up to his nose as if he were about to sneeze.

"I thought he would have died of mortification," Sherlock snickered, trying to contain himself.

"Well, you weren't the only one," he replied, laughing into Rosie's papoose and smiling as the girl greeted him with a toothless grin.

"D'you still have those plans about seeing Craig?" John asked, clearing his throat and regaining his voice as they entered a lift and began descending. "About the Wellington brothers, I mean? Their records and messages and such? Are you still wanting to track those?"

Sherlock's eyes gleamed as he found John's fists clenching slowly. His own heart was beginning to race, and he wondered if John caught the spark in his expression.

"Of course I do," he replied, his voice suggesting excitement.

"Is the game on, then?" John further queried, his pulse quickening as he became impatient for the lift doors to open.

"Indeed, John. The game is on."

And the two men stepped out of the lift, took to the streets of London, and decided that they were prepared to thwart the infamous schemes of the world's most dangerous consulting criminal.


	35. Split Ends

A/N: Hallo, friends! I do apologize for the delay in sending out this new chapter to you. I've taken on more hours at work, have decided to transfer to a different uni, and I'm an exhausted little mess! BUT! I haven't forgotten this story, and I am still working on it and giving it my very best effort. Never fear! But, I will say that from now on there might be longer time gaps in between chapters. Just so I don't ruin anyone's expectations of *when* I'll be posting. I'm not giving up, friends. This story is almost done, and I'm so excited! Hang in there with me, and we'll see this to the end. I love you all, and thank you for your undying fidelity ;)

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Sherlock and John tried to keep the blankets over Rosie’s buggy as they raced against a storm down a rural street in central London. Passing a red telephone box on the corner, the trio could see their destination only a few feet ahead.

“It’s this one up here, John!” Sherlock screamed, holding the blanket down over the front of the buggy as he ran. John was pushing it through puddles, splashing Sherlock as he did so. The detective was sopping wet, and so was the doctor.

“Could you at least try avoiding the puddles, John?” he asked as a ginormous splash soaked his trousers, shoes, and socks. John grumbled, increasing speed. The flat was in sight.

“You try pushing a buggy in a bloody deluge and tell me how avoiding puddles works for you! God, it hasn’t rained this hard in weeks, Sherlock!”

“I know,” Sherlock said, as Rosie complained from within. “Almost there, dear Watson. Just a little longer,” he said, hushing the child. John could feel her impatiently shaking around inside. He laughed. “Just like Mary,” he thought to himself.

“Here we are,” Sherlock said, coming to the front door and pounding upon it.

Craig had been Sherlock’s ticket out of Mycroft’s exasperation. He feared Mycroft’s threat to have Irene sent to the Ukrainians. The man could, and he most likely would if he only had confirmation of where she was. However, contrary to his brother’s opinion, Sherlock was determined to believe that he could crack this case. He could foil Moriarty’s plans just as he had done last time, and he was willing to play dead again for two years if that’s what it came to.

As for Eurus, he wasn’t sure what to think of his sister…he couldn’t be sure why he wasn’t doubting her loyalty in the slightest. He felt convinced that she was on his side, even if Mycroft had different opinions.

Only a mere forty-five minutes after he had left the hospital the day before, the British Government had ordered the consulting detective back into his presence, but this time it was without John or Lady Smallwood present.

Naturally, Sherlock played the active participant in the lecture.

“Now, you understand, Sherlock—”

“Oh, for God’s sakes, Mycroft, I don’t have to understand anything! Let me solve this thing and be done with it. You damn well know I can,” he haughtily trumpeted, without the smallest attempt at being modest. He aggressively bit off a chunk of the jammie dodger he was nibbling on.

“I wonder why I feel so inclined to deny you the pleasure? How I’d love to see you brought down a peg or two,” he said, his salty words bringing an oddly malicious smile to his lips.

“Mycroft, I know where this ends. Miss Adler is not to blame, and I don’t think you realize that.”

Mycroft’s chapped lips made a clapping sound as they parted, and he announced, “I don’t think I ever said she was to blame, did I, Sherlock?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Well, you have a certain way of implying things, whether you mean them or not. Care to enlighten me on your opinion of the matter?”

Mycroft paused for a moment, apparently deciding whether or not to give his brother the opinion he so desperately craved.

“No, I don’t think I will. But I will say that after our last meeting, and given the manner of her departure, it has become quite clear in my mind that Miss Adler is not our concern right now. She is the least of my worries. I know that’s not true for the both of us, but…”

He eyed Sherlock with a teasing expression whilst the younger huffed.

“Do get on with it, Mycroft. I don’t have all day.”

The elder brother’s mouth bent itself into a forced smile, and he proceeded.

“There was information, Sherlock—”

“Yes…” the detective loudly interrupted, his eyes getting lost in the rooves of their lids. He already knew this. He already knew it so very well.

Mycroft cleared his throat, perturbed at the untimely interruption.

“There was information,” he repeated, “on the Wellington brothers’ computers. All of it has been erased, as have their personal emails, social media accounts…any and all methods of technological communication and the data that came with them have vanished. Therefore, I would like to kindly make the request that you—”

“—secure the information from a data bank employing the means of a hacker, retrieve a common bit of information from both men’s data files, and thereby understand the means through which Moriarty intends to attack London. Jammie dodger?” he asked, handing his brother one of the little pastries.

Mycroft’s smile was practically falling apart.

“No, I don’t think so,” he calmly replied. “Trying to stay off the sweets.”

“Hospital food’s ruined your diet, hasn’t it?”

“That does not concern you, little brother,” he said, swallowing uncomfortably and narrowing his funny little eyes. “What does concern you,” he hastily continued, “is the fact that you need a hacker. And you need one now. Get one, for God’s sake, and don’t waste my time.”

“I have a hacker. And, to be fair, this was my plan before it was yours.”

Mycroft looked unimpressed.

“You amaze me, Sherlock,” he anticlimactically droned. “As to whether or not it was my plan first, I will leave unsaid, but as to you already having a hacker…I congratulate you,” he said, sighing and lying back down onto the pillows. He seemed to be enjoying his hospital bed. “Lovely how things have turned around. Maybe getting shot wasn’t such a bad idea. Gives one time to rest. I ought to do it more often.”

“Clearly; next week ought to be fine,” Sherlock said, perfectly sincere in his suggestion.

“Make us proud, brother mine,” Mycroft chirped with closed eyelids as his younger brother turned on his heel and glided out of the hospital room, his cloak flying as though he were some kind of enormous bat.

“You don’t have to beg, Mycroft,” he replied, letting a smirk worm its way across his face. He heard his brother’s laugh split the sterile air.

“I know I don’t. Here there be dragons!” he called, letting a few cold laughs pepper the end of his words. Sherlock almost scowled, but found himself agreeing with his brother. Here there were dragons…and they were practically begging to be slain.

And the dragon slayer’s first decision was to consult the right weaponry.

The following morning, through thick sheets of rain and impossible winds, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, and little miss Rosie Watson scurried through the streets of London in search of the hacker’s dwelling…and a refuge from the storm.

Banging on the man’s door, the trio (perhaps excluding the well-shielded child) sighed in relief as it opened hastily.

“Cold out there, eh, Sherlock? Afternoon, John,” the hacker greeted, smiling from behind his awfully large spectacles. His hair was as erratic and scraggly as usual.

“Indeed, Craig. How are you?”

“Fine, just fine, thanks; come in, quick! Don’t want the little one to catch cold!”

Hoisting the buggy into the house, John ordered Sherlock to hold the door open while Craig took the front end of the buggy. Once inside, John threw off the blankets and rescued his baby daughter from the confining insides of her bassinet.

“How’s Toby?” Sherlock asked, looking around for the dog.

Two loud barks echoed from down the hall that led to the kitchen, and Toby bounded into the living room, nearly knocking Sherlock over. John still laughed over seeing his sociopathic companion coddling and playing with a dog.

“Who’s a good boy, Toby? Eh? Who’s a good boy?” the detective asked, scrunching the dog’s ears and face in his hands. Craig laughed and shoved his pudgy hands in his pockets.

“Toby’s always ready to help his favorite people,” Craig quipped, patting the dog on its large forehead. “But I hear you’re here to see me today, eh, Sherlock? Something about lost records was what Doctor Watson said when he was here a few days ago…”

Sherlock jumped up instantly and replied, “Yes, lost records. Right. Two men were killed—brothers, unfortunately. Their computer records, emails, messages, social media accounts: any and all internet connections were deleted. We cannot seem to find anything on them anywhere. They never existed.”

Craig grinned, his crooked teeth shining childishly through his chubby cheeks.

“Ah…” he said, his eyes shining with anticipation. “I see where this is going. You should’ve come sooner, Sherlock. I’ll get this sorted straight away.”

John now had Rosie out of the buggy and was lying on Toby, who was peacefully (if a bit cautiously) relaxing and eyeing her suspiciously. John made sure she kept her hands off of the beast’s bulbous nose.

“And another thing, Craig,” Sherlock said, interrupting the man on his way to his computer screens. “There’s a common bit of information that was most likely received by both men. If you can find a common message received through both of their emails or messages from a common sender, you must take note of it.”

Craig looked intrigued.

“Well what kind of common message is this? Espionage stuff, eh? Then I’m your man!” he asserted, pulling his arm up into a sloppy salute that Sherlock merely laughed at. The tech geek’s glasses rested on his thick dimples as he smiled, and he sauntered toward his computer screens jovially.

“Let’s see…” he said, powering up his hard drives. “Did these gents have names?” he asked, pulling out a pen and paper.

“Indeed they did,” Sherlock replied. “Arthur and John Wellington. I can write down their contact information if that’s handy,” he said, jotting down social media profiles and email addresses on Craig’s pad of notepaper.

“Excellent, Sherlock…excellent,” the hacker said, entering passwords on the monitors and waiting for the system to boot itself up. “I can start searching through all the old databases and stuff. There’s gotta be something somewhere. Pull up a chair for yourself and Doctor Watson; we can get this sorted in no time. Doctor Watson, I’ve some bananas in the kitchen for the little one, if you’d like,” he added, trying to be helpful.

“Oh, she’s good now, thanks,” John said. He was watching Rosie fall asleep on Toby, who by now was used to her curiously small infantine presence and warm, odd smelling drool…they were both quite the same in theory.

“Let’s see here…” Craig began, jamming code after code into monitors and searching for any kind of material that might lead to the Wellington brothers or their personal accounts.

The three men, the infant, and the dog, were all preoccupied in their own ways for the remainder of the next five hours at the hacker’s flat. Rosie fell asleep on Toby’s stomach, and Toby himself fell asleep with the little child lying peacefully against him.

John checked his emails most of the time, answered a call from Mycroft (who was asking yet again about the status of the case), and went back and forth between internet tabs and his Twitter.

Sherlock studied Craig’s every action, watching as he punched the keyboard and entered codes into the systems he was using. Although a genius of deduction, Sherlock was quite dumb when it came to the subject of hacking and computer science. He considered it a science that made one mentally fat. The computer did all the work for you, and your mind was left to take the backseat. But, then again…computers really did come in handy for certain things. Their situation seemed to be the exact “certain thing” inferred.

Night fell, and as the darkness enveloped the little room, they had to switch the lamps on. Rosie grew fussy after waking up on a sleeping Toby, and John insisted on taking her home. Sherlock urged him to do so, but was quite decided on the fact that he would stay on with Craig until this entire business was solved. The poor hacker’s blubbery fingers were growing tired every minute, but he was determined to assist Sherlock and earn the five thousand quid he’d been promised by the British Government.

Midnight came and went. Sherlock fell asleep on Craig’s sofa while the screens still lit up the madman’s face. His eyes were red, and his glasses had slid down to stand on the edge of his nose. Toby had long since gone to sleep by the fireplace.

…

“Sherlock? Sherlock…?”

Craig was standing over the detective, apparently having poked him on the cheek a few times to see if he were living or dead. Sherlock stood up as the sun streamed into his eyes and spilled lazily onto the living room floor.

“Did you—did you get something? Did something come up? Have you got a lead, Craig?” he asked, almost drunkenly as he floundered from the sofa over to the computer screens. He could hear the techie sigh as his own excitement mounted.

His heart dropped.

“Nothing…yet, Sherlock,” he said, straightening his glasses and trying to smooth down his wild, fuzzy hair.

“Nothing?” Sherlock asked, looking at the screens in disbelief. “I don’t understand. I…I was so certain…”

“There’s no giving up, Sherlock!” Craig asserted, squeezing himself between the detective and his desk in a successful attempt to settle himself into his chair.

“I’m going…to keep looking, and you’ll be the first to hear if anything comes up. I promise, Sherlock. Deleted data always goes somewhere. I can find it, I know I can. I just need some time, is all.”

Sherlock was still too sleepy to respond or rebuttal properly, so he promptly decided that the best thing to do was to retreat to Baker Street, catch a long nap, and call Craig again as soon as he woke up.


	36. A Little Roulette

A/N: Hallo, friends! As promised, a new chapter! This one's a bit shorter, I'll admit, but I hope you enjoy it. I'm still working on this as much as I can. Currently, my family and I are experiencing a bit of sickness run through our house. It's quite severe...whether or not it's COVID-19, we aren't sure, but we are just taking care of ourselves and staying healthy. Your support, prayers, and thoughts are all tremendously appreciated. I love you all!

AND: super ginormous thank you to all of the anonymous guests who comment! You are BRLLIANT, and I wish I could respond, but alas! I cannot. You know who you are, and I LOVE YOU. :)

Stay healthy, friends. I pray for you all each morning. I really, really do.

Tschüss! :)

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The young Russian girl kept her head down as she walked, trying not to draw attention to herself…despite the fact that her hair was an intoxicating mixture of rosy red and the hottest of pinks.

Shoving her hands into her pockets, the cold, wintry wind chiseled at her soft features, and she wiped her nose with the back of her hand. There was a stinging sensation in her lungs as the sharp air filled her chest. She coughed, and a small cloud of breath filled the space in front of her.

And suddenly, the distant peals of a church bell marked the beginning of the new year.

She'd been in this dump of a city for two weeks, trying to find the one person who mattered to her employer: an approximately five-foot-tall Englishwoman with remarkably sharp features, dark hair, and fierce, penetrating blue eyes, as per the photograph she had been provided with for a description.

The wanted woman was apparently able to speak Russian, too, albeit rudimentarily.

So far, it had been two grueling weeks of searching through this God-forsaken city that she could never stand being in. Moscow was home, and nothing would ever convince her that Kirov was a nice place to live…or visit, for that matter.

She kept walking down the road, her head down like the rest of the depressed lot. Everyone was depressed in Kirov. Whenever she thought of it, her poetic mind would tell her that in Kirov, "everything is devastating; the streets reek of hopelessness." After her first trip here many years ago with her father, she'd convinced herself that it was one of the worst towns in Russia. Especially now, during winter, when the icy climate bites at your unadorned cheeks.

"Oi! Ostorozhno!" a man shouted as she accidentally hit his shoulder walking by. "Hey! Watch it!" She only shrugged, scoffed, and continued trudging along the weary path. Everyone was like this in Kirov.

She had thought last week that the one woman in the café had been the one she sought for. But then the lithe thing turned her head and the nose was all wrong. Then there had been that lone woman in the library with the woolen shawl. But the hair was pulled back in a tight, blonde bun and the eyes were brown. And, to the girl's utter vexation, there had been the small woman in the cathedral, who had fit every manner of the description from afar off, but upon closer look it was revealed that she could never have been the same woman, because her cheeks were much too full.

Cursing under her breath, the young girl kept walking, kicking stones in frustration down the ice-caked, salt-crusted paths. The drab, grey buildings seemed to add depression to the toxic melancholy of Kirov. The snow, gathered in clusters on the corners of the streets and sidewalks and buildings, were like rain clouds dampening the souls of the city's inhabitants.

All was bleak.

No one was out walking tonight, even though it was New Year's Eve and the midnight hour had chimed from the churches to ring in the new year. It was much too cold for anyone to be out this late…anyone except our young Russian girl.

Walking across the street like a furtive little squirrel, she produced her phone from her pocket and opened the message her employer had sent with the woman's photograph. She had to see it again. She chuckled to herself as she examined the woman's face for what seemed to be the fiftieth time: the high cheeks, the thin lips, the dark hair, and the blue eyes…even the way she glanced past the lens made her look unearthly, elusive, and faerie-like.

It vexed her beyond reason.

She had been so certain that those women had been her…and yet upon a second glance, she would realize just how difficult this woman was going to be to find.

She had found people for her employer in two days before during other assignments. How was this woman so concealed, so superb, so professional as to manage staying hidden for two weeks from the scrutinous eyes of our young Russian girl?

Hmm?

What's that?

Her eyes sharpened, and they outlined a figure standing below a streetlamp up ahead. Man or woman she could not tell yet, but whoever they were, they were advancing rapidly in her direction. Whether she was their object or not, she could not tell. But the strides were deliberate, and the way in which each step was taken made her feel uneasy.

Concealing her phone in her pocket, she pulled her jacket closer around her once more, adjusted her thin gloves, and turned on her heel to deliberately walk in the opposite direction. Despite the amount of martial arts training she had endured, she didn't enjoy the way this unknown person was singling her out, and she felt too annoyed to defend herself or get into another scrape. It was too risky, especially at this time of night.

The young Russian walked for about ten minutes through the deserted city streets, passing only a few downtrodden citizens of Kirov. No matter how far she walked, she fancied she could still hear footsteps following behind her. Throwing a quick glance over her shoulder, she could still see the anonymous person striding briskly in the same direction as she. Her intrigue was on fire, and she was finding herself less occupied with the elusive Englishwoman and more occupied with the mysterious individual trailing after her.

Venturing deeper into Kirov, she found herself at an intersection, and her path ventured across the street. To cross without waiting for a red light was hardly dangerous, and she could have gone a different way, but she wondered…if she were to wait at this light for it to turn, would the stranger do the same?

She waited for the light, and eventually, the anonymous "pursuer" stopped beside her and waited with her for WALK sign to appear.

"Privet," our young Russian said, trying to catch a glimpse of the stranger's face.

"Privet," a woman's unaccented voice responded from beneath a dark hood. But really; anyone could say privet without an accent. She tried to remember that.

"Cold tonight, ya?" our young Russian asked, still speaking in her native tongue and hoping the woman would turn and reply. All she needed was one look—just one look at the woman's face.

"Da," the strange woman responded, still looking toward the other side of the street. Most of the people in Kirov were standoffish, so this was nothing new. Still, the girl couldn't help being intrigued.

"What is your name?" the mysterious woman asked, folding her arms across her chest and leaning against the lamppost. She stil wasn't facing our young Russian, which irritated the latter immensely.

"What's it to you?" the girl snapped, shoving red hair behind her small, pierced ears.

"No need to get excited," the woman replied. "I was only asking. This place is…much different from Moscow, isn't it?"

The teen's heart stopped for a brief moment, and her brain banged against the side of her skull.

"Who says I've been to Moscow?"

The woman laughed.

"I do. You're from Moscow, idiot. Don't pretend you don't know that."

"How would you know?"

The mysterious creature only laughed and wrapped a scarf closer around her face. She said no more and waited for the light to turn. A few cars came down the road, taking advantage of the last few moments before the light turned red.

An ambulance sounded in the distance.

Our young Russian found herself incredibly confused. She couldn't understand this woman or what the dialogue that had just taken place could have meant. She bit her lip as she always did when she was agitated. She still hadn't gotten a look at the woman's face…

If she wanted to see it before they parted ways, then she needed to act quickly before the light turned. It was only a matter of seconds before it would.

"Ah!" she cried out, holding her head and falling to the salt-crusted, icy ground. "Ah! My head, my head!" she screamed in English, shutting her eyes and gritting her teeth. She'd done this about fifty times over the last few years, and each time she practiced, the performance became more and more convincing.

Instantly, the woman at the light turned, her blue eyes wide. Pushing her hood behind her head, she got down on her knees and put a gloved index finger to our young Russian's lips.

"Come now," she said, in perfect British English, "there's no need for that. Don't pretend you haven't seen me before." A thin smile formed on her face, and the Russian realized that this was the one and only woman she had been searching for.

"What are you talking about?!" the girl seethed, still convulsing and generating saliva in her mouth and letting her eyes roll into the back of her head.

"You could have been a little less obvious, if you want my advice, dear girl," the woman crooned. "The café, the library, the cathedral…you seemed so excited, but then I turned my head. Were my faces really so convincing? I won't pretend I haven't hidden myself before," she said, putting a stray strand of deep brown hair behind her ear.

Our young Russian was tempted to stop shaking with the capacity of realization and fury that had awakened in her breast, but she continued to writhe and squirm, saliva officially falling in one line out of the corner of her mouth.

"I don't understand! Help me!" she said, hitching her breath in her wet throat and masterfully crafting a choke. The Englishwoman laughed.

"Dear God," she mused, "you're quite good at it, aren't you? That almost set my heart in my mouth. But really…you can tell him you've found me. I honestly don't care if he knows where I am. Tell him. Please, do tell him. Irene Adler is in Kirov, and it's about time he knew. He's been a bit slow, really. I won't say I blame him. I'm hard to find, and besides…" she said, smirking intuitively, "I like keeping my men on a tight leash."

Standing to her feet, she left the girl on the sidewalk, still shaking and choking.

"Oh, and don't worry. I'll call an ambulance if it makes you feel better, but I hardly doubt you'll need one," Irene said, her back to the girl and pulling out her mobile with a thin, manicured hand. She held it over her shoulder to show our young Russian that she had dialed the numbers 103 for an ambulance.

She waited a moment to allow the girl a bit of time, and after a brief pause, she turned on her sharp heel and chuckled to herself. The girl was gone, and there was no sign of her anywhere…just as she had assumed.

"He's taught her well," she said under her breath, pocketing her mobile and walking across the street as the light turned.

Slipping her hand into her coat, she wrapped her thin fingers around a revolver. Her small, shuddery breaths made thick clouds of condensation in the frigid air, and her lungs caught on fire with the cold.

Disappearing into the night and feeling the talons of anticipation seize her iron-fisted soul, Irene Adler kept a steady hand on her cocked revolver and counted the minutes left until she was inside a windowless room and thus invisible from the eyes of the bleak, ugly streets of Kirov, Russia.


	37. Five Months

"Jacobson's brother murdered him with small doses of rat poison over a long period of time. The father's prompt death would have given him the family inheritance."

"Yeah, but how can you know—"

"I just do. Arrest the brother and close the damn case."

"Yeah, but Sherlock—"

"Just do it, inspector!" he yelled, almost groan-like. He abruptly sniffed the air for traces of bergamot and spices. "I need a cup of tea," he emphatically declared. "Do you want some?"

"Erm...no, I'm good, thanks...Sherlock, are you feeling alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Never better; now get out."

Greg Lestrade stood in the doorway as Sherlock prepared to close the door on him. His mouth was open, and he suspected the worst.

"Sherlock are you—?"

"Piss off, Greg," the detective scoffed, shoving the man out the door and slamming it in his face. His hands shook on the knob. There was stubble on his chin...when had that grown in? His head was racing a million kilometers a second, and he was still trying to catch up.

God, being high was so bad for business.

Sherlock slumped into his armchair, put his hand over his face and let his legs bob up and down for want of exercise. His brain was a mess, and his heart was beating far too fast for his own liking. It had only been one syringe for the past few days...just one! every twenty-four hours. It was the perfect ratio of morphine to cocaine, and it had been exactly what he had wanted...just the thing to spur him into action.

Or so he had thought.

Slumping forward in his chair, he found himself drifting in and out of sleep like a man dozing in a tub of water.

He glanced up at the clock. 15:00. That was...odd...Greg had said he would come by at 12:00, and he had. Had three hours already gone by? Damn it, maybe the few small dosages hadn't been such a good idea after all. He couldn't even keep track of the time or stay conscious for three small hours.

Five earth-rattling pounds on the front door made his eyes shoot open, and he flew out of his chair. Before the knocker spoke, the detective already knew who it was. There was only one person who could bang on the door like that.

"Sherlock!"

It was John Watson's voice that rapped on his brain...as he had previously anticipated. He froze, afraid to unlock the door.

"Sherlock! Is it true? Is it true?!?"

Neither spoke.

Sherlock considered locking himself in his bedroom.

John broke the silence from behind the door.

"What the hell is wrong with you? Open this bloody door or I swear to God I will break it down! Sherlock!"

John Watson was not in a good mood.

Sherlock slowly turned the lock then opened the door in one quick motion. In an attempt to appear blameless and conceal his feelings of overwhelming self-loathing, he put on the best smile he could.

"Oh! Hullo, John," he said. His pseudo innocence was so obvious, and John's expression upon seeing it was revolting. He paused, nervous as he dumbly stood holding the door open. "I thought you were in Dublin," he hastily announced.

"Well I'm not now, am I? Am I, Sherlock?" he demanded.

"Greg texted," he said. If he were a bull, smoke would have been coming from his nostrils. "Don't...don't even tell me that you've been using," he went on. "We talked about this. You're not that desperate!" he ended with at the crescendo's peak, hurtling past the detective and striding into the flat. Rosie was holding his hand beside him, walking in hurried shuffles on her two wobbly feet. Sherlock was confused...she could walk now?

"Oh, Rosie can walk now; that's good. That's wonderful. Hallo, Rosie!" Sherlock said, smiling into the little girl's face. His eyes were abnormally wide. She made a lunge for his nose, but he evaded it quickly.

"She's been walking for four months, Sherlock. Bloody wake up. Bloody remember."

"I just needed a few doses this week, John. My head was in agony."

John drew in a deep breath, trying to compose himself in an attempt to refrain from yelling, which wasn't exactly successful.

"Do you think this is what she would have wanted?" he said, his voice growing louder every second. "Do you? Do you think Irene would have wanted this, Sherlock? Cause I don't!" he hollered, picking up Rosie and settling her on his hip. She was remarkably larger than she had been, and Sherlock noticed.

John continued.

"I don't care how long it's been! When are you going to realize that and pull your head out of your arse? I was gone one week! ONE WEEK! You couldn't have stayed focused for just one week, could you?" he yelled, his eyes narrowing angrily.

"It's been five months, John. Five. Don't you realize how ridiculous that is? Five months and there's been absolutely nothing from Craig, nothing from Moriarty, Eurus refuses to see me, and there's nothing from..."

His mouth went dry. He didn't want to say the name. He tried to generate some kind of noise with which to finish his thoughts. He rubbed his nose agitatedly and purposely looked away from John's fiery gaze.

"...nothing from anyone!" he finished, falling dramatically into his armchair and letting his feet fly up and down erratically.

Looking at the doctor, he could tell John was not convinced by his display of emotion, and he felt compelled to offer a detailed excuse for his decision to "get high."

"My mind is less than what I require! I needed more! I had to go faster, John; I'm not done with this case, but I feel like it's done with me!" he screamed, his hands flying frantically around his head in ridiculous frustration.

John sniffled and hoisted Rosie further up his hip. It looked like he was scrambling for something to say...unsure of how to address his desolate (and high) sociopathic friend.

"Sherlock..." he began, for the millionth time addressing the detective in an attempt to bring him back down to reality, "you need rest, and you need to clear your head. You're delusional, and you're not...you're not thinking straight, Sherlock. You're high. What the hell were you thinking of? Getting high now of all times?"

"There's nothing wrong with me, John. I just...I needed stimulation. I needed to sharpen my mind, that's all! I'm fine!"

John made a "pfft" nose with his tongue, and went to sit opposite Sherlock with Rosie in his lap. She fussed angrily until her father let her down to freely roam the premises.

"How long has she been walking again?" Sherlock asked, scratching his bristly face.

John looked ready to blow a hole through the man's head. His open mouth and narrowed eyes would have been enough to send the devil himself back into hell.

"Four...months. The month after Mycroft came out of his coma, remember? Mycroft went home from the hospital, we went to visit and brought over some food, and she stood up in the living room for the first time?"

Sherlock looked dumbfounded for a moment.

"Oh, yes...that's right. Yes. Yes, of course. I remember. Definitely remember now."

An annoyed, less-than-civil grin crossed John's face, and he shook his head as a deep growl rumbled in his chest.

"No...no you don't. You're gonna go lie down, Sherlock. Alright? You're gonna lie down and you're not gonna get up until I say so. I'm calling Molly. She'll come and check on you when you wake up."

"I'm fine, John."

"NO, YOU'RE NOT!"

Sherlock's lips sealed shut, and he swallowed silently. Rosie's lower lip bulged, and little tears glistened in her eyes as she ran towards her father and threw her little arms around his legs.

"And you're going to bed now, Sherlock. Now."

Sherlock stood to his feet without saying another word and trudged toward his bedroom like a dog with its tail between its legs.

"No, not that bedroom. My bedroom. Upstairs," John said, pointing in the general direction of the staircase.

"What for?" Sherlock retorted, not even bothering to turn around.

"Don't pretend like I don't know what you do in that bedroom."

"I don't do anything in that bedroom," he retorted, spinning on his heel while his dirty bathrobe swished around.

"Yes, you do. You remember. And you let your mind...slip into...dark places. You think too bloody much, and I'm not having it."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do."

"Oh, is that so?" he asked, agitation lacing the edges of his words.

"Yes, I do know, because I did the exact same thing when Mary died."

Sherlock's mouth fell open, and he tried to get words to come out of his mouth, but his tongue was dry as a bone and thick as a whale. John was trembling now, his determined glare never once leaving the detective's wired eyes.

"I did the exact...same...thing. I felt the pillows, and I smelled the sheets. And for a moment, it felt like it was alright again. Like things were fine."

He swallowed, his chest heaving.

"Like I wasn't alone," he went on. "Like my life hadn't fallen out from under my feet. That's what it felt like, Sherlock. And I know that's what it feels like for you. When you go in there and when you...hide. When you bury your head in the cushions because it feels fine again. And you try to smell for the last few traces of Clair de la Lune left on the pillows. Because after a few hours of sleeping on them, you start to forget. And your heart goes numb because you've forgotten. And then you wake up, and the only thing you want to do is go back to sleep, because..."

John sniffed abruptly and held a finger to his bulbous nose. A melting sensation ran from Sherlock's breast and down into his toes. He felt the compulsive need to complete the string of words that had been left unsaid.

"Because...that's the only place it doesn't hurt to be..." Sherlock said, staring steadily into John's cloudy eyes. The doctor met his gaze with as composed an expression as he could muster, letting the tears sink back behind his eyes and away from his dry cheeks.

"Yeah...exac—" he stopped short as the breath caught in his throat. "Yeah, exactly," he barely finished, holding a finger to his mouth. Rosie was still hugging his legs, and he reached down to scoop her up and hold her in his arms.

"You miss Irene. You miss her, and it's okay to miss her, Sherlock. God knows I missed Mary when she died."

"I think we all remember that."

"You'd be an arsehole if you didn't."

Sherlock laughed, scratching the back of his head nervously. Mary's death and John's initial reception of it were touchy subjects. He didn't like thinking on them often.

"But Irene's not dead," John abruptly said, pushing a bit of hair behind Rosie's ear.

"She may as well be."

"But she isn't," he parried, staring the detective long in the eyes. Sherlock was suspicious of the man's meaning, and his eyes furrowed in a bit of confusion. He was about to ask what was meant by this subtle statement, but Mrs. Hudson entered the flat with a cup of hot tea.

"John, I've brought the tea just like you asked; Japanese Green! I used to give it to my husband whenever he was high. Helped to bring him down, you know?"

Sherlock stifled a laugh. Mrs. Hudson still knew the tricks assumed of a drug dealer's wife. Her history was never easy to believe, but its truth always merited a chuckle.

"Yeah, for this one," John said, motioning to Sherlock and leading him towards the staircase to his bedroom. "Take him upstairs, have him lay down, and give him the tea, would you Mrs. H?"

"Of course, dear. Come on, you!" she said, marching him off to his bedroom. Sherlock sauntered away looking as though he were about to be executed.

John kissed Rosie's soft cheek as he found himself alone in the flat. He smiled at his daughter as she cooed indistinctly, and he gave her a raspberry on the cheek. Hysterically, she burst into a fit of giggles and screamed "Daddy! Daddy!"

He laughed for a moment, and then he spied his wife sitting in his armchair.

"You've done well, John," she said, smiling sweetly and holding her chin in her hands. She giggled to match her daughter's bout of mirth, and her eyes sparkled.

"You've done well with both of them, John. And I've never been prouder of you."

John blinked back a tear and smiled. He even huffed a chuckle.

"I'll always love you, Mary."

She looked like a queen in his armchair, and he realized that she was well aware of the fact.

"And I you, you bloody idiot."

And John Watson's heart was quite near the point of bursting.


	38. What He Needed

“You don’t seem to need me anymore.”

He opened his eyes, but moved not an inch. Lying flat on his bed, the sound of the voice in his mind palace set his heart swimming in his chest. It echoed inside the dark recesses of his cold, bitterly lonely head.

“You’re never around to visit like you used to. I must not be so very important anymore, am I?” it asked, this time in a sarcastic tone.

Sitting up in bed, he saw the slim figure of his wife sitting in the open window sill. Her hair was gently dancing around her shoulders as a delicate breeze sailed through the room. She was wrapping one long, thin strand of hair around her index finger and looking at him from behind eyes that looked almost…wounded.

“I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but I’d say you were avoiding me.”

He came out of bed, and without the delusional swagger of a junkie, he walked with careful, consciously chosen steps toward the sill. As the base of the window was about level with his stomach, he had neither to stoop nor look up to easily find her gaze.

Putting a gentle hand at the small of her back to support her (though he knew she was well off without it), he could feel his mind working furiously to put together an accurate representation of those hard, wintry eyes brimming with will, strength, and thirst.

“Not as though you’ve carried on well without me,” she said, and he felt the full weight of the rebuke, albeit only a mental picture. “I had expected so much. Is my memory not enough for you?”

“Memory is not reality, Miss Adler,” he said.

“But memory is kind, Mr. Holmes. You of all people ought to know that by now.”

He said nothing, only stared at this mind palace manipulation of what was once her. And yet the memory was so vibrant, poignant, and refreshing. It may as well have been her. Every feature, limb, expression, and quibble were her own. She was here to stay—in his mind—and she would never leave. He had delayed this meeting for so long, but now it was inevitable.

“But that must be why you’ve chosen to see me in this mind palace of yours…reality is not kind, as it never has been. And this memory is…far more pleasing, isn’t it?” she asked, ruffling his hair gently with her thin fingers.

He didn’t smile, but only continued to stare, and he felt her eyes trying to find something inside his own…whatever it was he was unaware of. She only continued to smile, and the smile was almost too unnerving for him to endure.

“What do you want, Mr. Holmes? Tell me…and I might just give it to you.”

“I ought to ask you to read my mind. As you’re always telling me, you’re good at that sort of thing,” he said, reminding himself of what it was to toy with her.

“Then I should think,” she said, each word falling out of her mouth as if it was made of a silken thread, “that you want me. And I should think that I am not wrong in assuming so.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m here, see? Just where you want me: in your head.”

“God knows I never wanted you here.”

“Why?”

“I’ve confined you, and you are something of a distraction when there are more pressing matters at hand.”

“I’m flattered,” she said, her lips smushing into that same coy smile she always hid behind. Her eyes communicated professional coquetry.

It left a white-hot burn in his brain.

“Don’t do that,” he said, his one hand holding tightly to her, the other awkwardly brushing her cheek.

“Why?” she asked, studying his hand out of the corner of her eye.

He didn’t answer, and he could see she didn’t need him to. His stomach was a bowl of cold porridge, and his head was swimming with nostalgic fluid. He was uselessly trying to silence every voice in his head that told him to express himself, to show her, to beg her…

He let go of her and sat in a chair in the corner of John’s room. She softly fell from her place in the window, folding her arms across her chest and following him from a distance.

“I might ask you why you left,” he said, his brow furrowing and his chest growing hot with the pains she had left him to bear alone: the unanswered questions, the abrupt departure, the uncertainty of her return, and the doubt of her…affections for him.

“For reasons you will thank me for,” she replied.

“Eurus said the same.”

“Eurus was right, Mr. Holmes,” she said. “I’m not saying I’ll never see you again…I’m only saying she was right.”

“What has Eurus done? In this elaborate scheme, what has she done? Nothing! She’s left me with a bundle of pointless words and thrown me out into the dark to unravel them.”

He hadn’t wanted to say all this, but the words were coming out of his mouth like vomit. His heart was pushing them up through his throat and there was nothing he could do to keep himself from releasing the stream of unrelenting agitation. He had to go on.

“What has Mycroft done? What have you done, for God’s sake? Nothing! And what am I obligated to do? Everything! Why does everyone expect me to—to—to pick up the pieces of a puzzle and put them together? Everyone reminds me of last time. Moriarty wasn’t even dead last time. I was too late last time. People died, last time!” he said, crouching forward and refusing to meet her gaze. He exhaled so laboriously that one would think his lungs had been fully emptied and were now shriveled up.

“People will die again if this is left to me!” he went on. “I—I—I am left with the unwanted evidence, the—the—the things no one can understand, the elaborate mysteries that people don’t—don’t care to investigate, and why? Why is it that I am always the one expected to make sense of it all?” he asked, throwing his hands dramatically in the air as the full realization of what he was up against settled on his weary head. Only one question pounded on his skull.

“What if I can’t this time? What if none of this makes sense to me? What if this time—this time—Sherlock Holmes doesn’t have the answer? Because I don’t—I—I don’t!”

His eyes were red and the burden he carried was weighing on his shoulders, pushing him forward and forcing him to stare at his feet. His head was banging madly, the energy slipping out of his grasp, and all he wanted was to sleep: to sleep forever.

But the frustration…oh, that goddamn frustration! It kept his eyes open at two in the morning. It kept him from the peace of sleep and the serenity of slumber. The daunting task kept his mind awake and never allowed him the refreshment of rest. This impossible riddle wouldn’t let his brain sit down and stop dancing.

The road to St. Paul’s is the road to hell.

The road to St. Paul’s is the road to hell.

It was loud, unending, continually impossible. He had been to the cathedral so many times, looking for a room, or a number, or a symbol of something remotely relating to hell. He’d inspected the roads around the cathedral, the shops, the names…it didn’t make any sense.

And it was maddening!

Irene’s memory was standing over him now, running a delicate hand through his hair and laughing under her breath.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes always did take on more than he bargained for,” she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice. And it wasn’t a condescending smile, it was a knowing one…a sympathetic one…a beautiful one.

He looked up into her face and could see the laughter in her eyes. She thought him silly, and he could see it. It wasn’t an annoying realization, but a comfort to his isolated soul. It washed over his wired head like water over a shriveled worm.

“Did I ever mention how incredibly daft you can be when you forget yourself? You’ve forgotten nearly everything, darling. You forget who you are. But you’ve not forgotten me, have you?” she asked, holding his face in one of her little hands.

She bent down to kiss him, and each memory in his head tried desperately to mimic the sensation as best it could. As the soft memory of her lips offered itself, he even felt that dying ember in his stomach strengthen again and glow fervently in the midst of a heap of cold ashes…but only for a moment.

“But I’m here,” she said as she came away, gently drawing little lines on his cheeks with her thumbs. “And I will remind you if no one else will. I will remind you if nothing else can.”

She was in his arms at his point, and he wasn’t ashamed of the fact that he was clinging to her…clinging to the memory, at least.

“There was a moment,” she said, holding one of his curls between two fingers, “on a cold morning when Kate brought up the morning paper. It’s silly—I know—but I’ve always read the daily paper…always subscribed to it. Out of habit, I suppose.”

She broke into a thoughtful silence, her mouth a straight line of indifference and her eyes clouded over with troubled reminiscence.

“But on said morning,” she continued, “there was a ridiculous, arrogant, hat-wearing detective on the front page. I’m not sure why…it might have been the absurd expression on his face or the way the light outlined his sharp cheekbones.”

She smiled at the recollection, running a thumb down those same sharp cheekbones as though she were sculpting them from clay.

“But all I knew was that I wanted to play with that detective in the funny hat. So, I did. I still wonder why I ever decided to. It turned out that he was the smartest man I had ever known, and he was a bit harder to get around than I had anticipated.”

She ceased all movement of her fingers and only stared for a strange duration into his oddly colored eyes.

“He frightened me, Mr. Holmes. He was the only man who ever has and likely ever will. He was the only man I’d ever known who could see through me. He was the only man who had ever made me think. The usual stuff didn’t work on him, and that made him so…incredibly interesting. He had a depth that I couldn’t explain. He undid everything I ever tried to do, and I even recall a time when I almost died, and he had the nerve to go and undo that.”

Sherlock was saying nothing throughout this entire soliloquy of hers, but each word turned softly in his head, penetrated his morale, and initiated a series of contemplative reflections. All the while, she continued softly speaking, and he silently listening.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes is alive. The only man I have ever loved and ever will love. He is alive, and if anything can keep him alive, it is my memory. Because I am still alive, and I want to be assured that he can still come up out of the coffin.”

The detective stared at his wife’s memory, certain that he had heard the words of an apparition, not a fiction…because her memory was her. He knew her, he knew what she would say, and he knew that wherever the hell she was, this is what she would have told him.

“But can he?” she asked, her face wearing an intercession.

“Can he what?”

She smiled.

“Can he come up out of the coffin? Just like he did last time?”

Her lips were inches from his again, and he felt himself unashamedly drawn towards them once more. She closed her eyes and sent his scalp prickling as she ran her fingers through his field of curls.

But before he could successfully kiss her, two voices penetrated his ear. Behind the wall, he could hear John and Mycroft. His ears strained to make out the words, but they were almost impossible to make out.

“That’s my cue,” she said, tenderly kissing his cheek instead and rising from her place in his arms to waltz toward the window.

“Come out, Mr. Holmes. Just promise me that you will come back out.”

And with one backwards motion, she was gone. He knew she was fine; she’d done that sort of thing so many times. He wasn’t sure if he had wanted their rendezvous to end so soon, but then again…if John and Mycroft were to come in…

…

He opened his eyes, and found himself still lying in John’s bed, where he had collapsed into a troubled slumber two hours earlier. The window was still open, letting in that flirtatious breeze, but he could still hear the muffled voices of his brother and his best friend outside the door. He closed his eyes and concentrated on listening: the words were sounding clearer now…

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” John demanded.

“For God’s sake, lower your voice, Dr. Watson!” Mycroft hissed. They were trying to keep their voices down, but in such a small flat as 221b, the noise traveled through the rooms as easily as if the walls were nonexistent.

“What I’m saying,” Mycroft continued, “is that we know where she is. I have known for about three months now, but I have deliberately chosen to keep the knowledge from my brother for reasons better left unknown to him.”

John gawked.

“So, she’s alive?”

“Yes. Very much so. Why wouldn’t she be? She’s currently residing in Russia—Kirov, Russia, that is.”

“You’ve known where she’s gone…all this time, and you’ve…you’ve said nothing?” John asked, his pattern of breath growing more and more agitated with each inhale.

“Your brother,” he continued, “just overdosed on morphine and cocaine on account of this woman, and you’ve kept the fact that she’s alive from him for three bloody months?” John broke out into a laugh, as though unable to tolerate the stupidity of Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft, meanwhile, shifted his weight from one foot to the other as though the ground beneath him were growing uncomfortably hot for his toes’ liking. It was a perfect expression of human awkwardness.

“I never realized…I never dreamt that it would have come to this with Sherlock…” Mycroft retorted, trying to explain himself.

John promptly inserted his own opinion after dusting aside the horrid justification.

“This is Sherlock Holmes, we’re talking about, Mycroft. Have a little perspective. Jesus,” he cursed, shaking his head in disbelief. How stupid was this man?

“Are you certain he’s still asleep?” Mycroft asked, his voice growing lower so that Sherlock could barely catch the words as they left his brother’s lips. The door was slightly ajar, and the whispering voices were hard (but not impossible) to discern.

“Like a rock,” John said. “I’ve never seen him sleep so hard for so long. He was snoring when I went in to check on him five minutes ago. I’m certain he’d have called me if he’d have woken up. Maybe I ought to go and check on him again.”

Sherlock sat up in bed as he heard the two men approaching. His eyes were wide with intrigue, his heart was pumping with renewed strength, and his hands were aching to be employed in some way.

She was alive.

She was in Russia.

She was going to finish this.

He couldn’t help it when the muscles in his face started arranging his mouth into a smile and the skin made lines around his eyes in delight. And oh!

Wait a moment!

His head was going so quickly.

The road to St. Paul’s is the road to hell.

It echoed in his brain, and for the first time in five months, it wasn’t haunting him. His head was running down the endless road of deductions it always took, his hands turning over each stone in the path for a possibility.

His head was faster than it had been, and his drug-filled body was having a difficult time registering everything his head was concluding.

But wait, that is something interesting…oh!

YES!

That must be it!

It couldn’t not be.

A small chuckle escaped his mouth as the door slowly opened up, letting in John and Mycroft.

“Having a nice chat with John, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, watching his brother’s expression turn into a horrified mess that nothing could clean. All the blood left his face, and his tongue clung to the roof of his mouth.

“Rise and shine, Sherlock,” John said, throwing a quick wink at the detective when Mycroft wasn’t looking.

“We were just discussing what kind of sustenance you ought to be having in order to restore your body to its ideal state of homeostasis. John suggested soups,” Mycroft lied, his face trying its best to look unamused, uninterested, and, most notably, unpanicked.

“Yeah, I had suggested that one beet soup stuff,” John said, trying with all his might not to smile. “…what’s it? Borscht soup?”

Sherlock’s eyes twinkled, catching the hint.

“Isn’t Borscht a Russian beet soup, John?”

John chuckled without even trying.

“Ukrainian, actually—but it’s quite common in Russia, so I hear.”

John grinned, shoving his hands in his pockets innocently as he did so.

Mycroft forced himself to laugh, which was the weirdest sight either of the men had seen since the day he had been kissed by Lady Smallwood (who was now regularly meeting Mycroft for coffee).

“Russian soups are known globally, John,” Mycroft droned, “and there are plenty of good British ones my brother can try,” he said, the pasted smile struggling to stay on his face. It was dripping away into oblivion at each second that passed.

“Don’t try to be comedic, Mycroft. You never were good at it,” Sherlock remarked, throwing the blankets off and springing to his feet. John reeled in surprise, and Mycroft’s pulse was set to presto and nearing prestissimo.

Mycroft looked terribly alarmed at seeing this new vivaciousness seize his brother, and his eyes widened. Most likely he was anticipating Sherlock to come forth with a sudden unaccounted-for urge to fly to Russia.

“Fetch Mrs. Hudson, John; I’m going to need to chat with her in a few moments.”

John blinked.

“Mrs. Hudson?” he asked, confusion wrinkling his brow.

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, the drug-dealer’s wife, and the exotic dancer.”

“Yeah, I know who she is, but why have you got to talk to her now?” John asked, his shoulders square as he crossed his arms over his chest.

“I have a few things that I need to take care of, and I need to speak with her,” Sherlock said, resolving not to say any more about his business with his landlady.

Mycroft swallowed uncomfortably.

“Is this for the case?” he asked.

“Yes, of course it’s for the case; why wouldn’t it be?” Sherlock snapped, going to the open window and sticking his head out. The wind flew up his nose and tossed his hair playfully.

“It’s a lovely evening, isn’t it, brother dear?” Sherlock asked, patting his brother’s cheek condescendingly as Mycroft scowled.

“If you have any ideas of going to Russia, Sherlock, then I’m afraid—”

“Russia? Why would I go to Russia? What could possibly persuade me to go to Russia?” Sherlock asked, appearing confused at his brother’s apparent stupidity. A slight smile graced his lips and a thin laugh peppered Mycroft’s already itching ears.

“Do you know what he’s on about with Russia, John?” Sherlock asked.

“No idea,” the doctor replied. “Maybe he’s finally starting to crack after all these years,” he said, chuckling and eyeing Sherlock with an expression that screamed, “I know your tricks, you utter clot.”

Sherlock caught the hidden meaning and grinned mischievously.

What most people interpreted as “tricks” were really the well-thought-out plans of a sociopathic consulting detective. And in the two minutes of consciousness that had transpired in between waking from slumber and the current moment, his mind had been given exactly what he had needed to get going.


	39. The Plans of an Idiot Genius

A/N: See, friends? I haven't forgotten this story and am still working on it! Never fear! I shall never abandon it. We are nearing the climax, and I am beyond excited to share it all with you very soon! I'm afraid I'll be schooling through the summer, so I will have a limited time to write, but I usually dedicate time to it everyday, so I'll have the next chapter out to you soon. I love you all, and thank you for your undying support.

~ Emily :)

...

"Alright, you two!"

Mrs. Hudson barged into the living room, her little hands on her hips, and her voice bursting with matronly authority.

John and Mycroft had been sitting in silence in the living room of 221b Baker Street, and Mrs. Hudson's private conversation with Sherlock had lasted for one whole hour. Now here she was, commanding attention like a captain commands his men.

"That's enough of sitting down, isn't it? We've things to do, boys..."

Mycroft opened his mouth to demand an explanation, but the old woman was too quick for him and promptly closed it.

"Not one word from you, Mycroft Holmes!" she scolded, pointing a thin finger at him. "I need you to get to your office now and standby on the telephone for a call from me. Off you go! Shoo, shoo!" she said, motioning impatiently toward the door.

Sherlock emerged from behind the landlady, and upon seeing him, Mycroft revolted.

"Sherlock, what the hell is going on? You don't expect me to—"

"I expect you to do what is required of you, Mycroft. Just get to your office. I'll be on the phone with you shortly and will explain everything. For now, just go."

Holding in what seemed to be all of hell itself, Mycroft Holmes shut his mouth and marched out of the door muttering indiscernible curses and threats. Sherlock only smiled to himself and cleared his throat.

"Erm...Sherlock, what actually is going on?" John asked.

"No time to explain now. Just know that I need you to run to the car storage down the street and fetch Mrs. Hudson's car. Don't crash it and be back here in ten minutes."

Mrs. Hudson threw a pair of keys at the confused doctor, who caught them before they hit him on the nose. Apart from the confusion, he was secretly delighted; he'd always wanted a go on Mrs. Hudson's car.

"You mean, I get to drive your car?" he asked the woman, trying not to grin too much.

"Only this once, John Watson," she said. "And if you so much as scratch the paint, I swear, I will have you pay for the damages!" she added, her voice suggesting real consequences.

"Y-yeah...okay," he said, hesitantly.

"Oh, and John," Sherlock said, before the doctor headed out the door, "if you happen to meet Billy down at the car storage, bring him back, would you? I'm going to need him here as well."

"Billy?!?" John demanded.

"Yes, Bill Wiggins! I'm going to need him here, so do be polite and let him in the car."

"And are you two in on this then?" John asked, pointing his finger between Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson. "And I'm just supposed to...play along and do what you tell me? Is that it?"

Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock exchanged glances, and the old woman turned to John with a broad smile on her face and said in her sweetest little voice, "Oh, be a dear, John...the game is on! Now you hurry up and fetch my car, will you?"

John couldn't say no and was gone not a second later.

"Sherlock, Molly's just arrived," Mrs. Hudson said, going to the window and peeking through the thin curtains. "She's brought Rosie, too."

"Oh, lovely, do show her up, Mrs. Hudson, she can help us in our little endeavor. She's good with these kinds of things."

"Of course, Sherlock," she said, running daintily toward the stairs to let Molly in.

"And make sure you let her know what's going on! I don't want to have to answer any questions at the moment."

She didn't answer, and Sherlock wasn't sure she had caught the last bit...hopefully she had. He was in no mood to explain...only to command, order, and execute. Things were happening in his brain, and he didn't need things getting in the way of the well-oiled cogs functioning properly.

"Hey, Sherlock," Molly said, as she entered the flat. Rosie was waddling beside her and holding her hand. Mrs. Hudson scooped her up as Molly began chatting.

"How...how're you holding up? John called and wanted me to check up on you. Another overdose? Again? You need to learn when to stop, Sherlock. You can keep doing this to yourself!"

"Yes, but I'm fine now. Don't trouble yourself. Everything's fine, and I need you for something else entirely. Assuming Mrs. Hudson didn't explain what's going on, I need you to help Mrs. Hudson turn me into a homeless man before John gets back as part of an elaborate scheme to save England and bring my wife back into the country."

Molly's face turned bright red.

"W-wife?!?"

"Ohh, dammit, did I say wife?" Sherlock groaned. He had meant to break the news gently. Well, it was out now, and it couldn't be helped.

"Oh, Sherlock, I—erm...congratulations! I—I had—had absolutely no idea..." Molly said, stuttering as if her tongue was covered in warts. Her cheeks were glowing embers.

"No? That's good—that was the point of all this. No one was supposed to know. It was a government scheme of my brother's. Too long to explain. Much too confidential. Anyway!" he said, marching toward the bathroom, "follow me ladies!"

Plopping Rosie into Molly's arms, Mrs. Hudson led the way to the bathroom.

"What exactly...are we doing, then?" Molly asked, looking alarmed as she followed the two of them into the bathroom with Rosie in her arms. Why on earth was she following Sherlock Holmes into a bathroom?

...

John Watson was trying to keep his head from blowing up.

"Can't I just—"

"NO!" John hollered, smacking the hand of a one Bill Wiggins, who had (moments prior) politely asked to turn on the car's built-in heater.

"OW!" Bill hollered, massaging his throbbing hand. "Ya broke mah fingers, ya did!" he said in his thick Cockney drawl. He looked at John as though he were looking at Britain's most wanted criminal.

"Oh, I did not. I only smacked you. Now keep your grubby paws off these controls! No one is touching anything in this car," John emphatically declared, trying to keep his eyes on the road. Baker street was only two minutes away. He hoped God would give him enough patience to survive until then.

"But isso bloody cold in 'ere!" Bill went on like a toddler whining for ice cream.

"Then freeze, for God's sake. I couldn't care less. I don't even know why you're here," John exploded, throwing up his hands for a brief moment.

"'Cause Sherlock Holmes asked for me, thass why," he proclaimed, looking self-important and ridiculously pleased with himself in all of his homeless glory.

"Yeah, well don't get used to it," John mumbled as they came to a red light.

"Why you so keen on keepin' this car clean, anyhow?" Bill asked, studying the doctor eagerly.

"Because," John began, "it's not mine. It's Mrs. Hudson's, and she—"

"Wha—?!" Bill interjected, his drugged-up eyes growing wider than John had ever seen them. "This is Hudders's car? Well, blimey, I—I never—whaddya know?"

"So then don't touch it. You don't want to get on her bad side, do you, Billy?" John asked, calling the man by the name Sherlock always used for him.

"Whaddya call me?" Bill asked, narrowing his eyes and looking something like a ninja as he eyed John from his seat. The blood in John's head started turning cold. Damn! What a stare he had!

"Billy...that's what Sherlock always calls you, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but he's Sherlock Holmes...he ain't you! Ain't no one calls me Billy but Sherlock Holmes, and thassa fact. You 'ear? I'm Bill to you or Wiggy. Thass it. You got it, bub?"

John laughed awkwardly.

"Yeah, alright, fine. Whatever."

Bill eyed John from his little corner of the passenger seat for a while, and John shuffled uncomfortably in the driver's side, refusing to make eye contact with him but feeling his gaze burning the side of his face all the same. Eventually, Bill looked away and John's cheek started to cool off. Thank God.

When they arrived at Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson was waiting for them on the street. Apparently, she had been eagerly watching for their arrival, and at the sight of her car coming around the bend, she seemed incredibly relieved. John may or may not have taken mild offence to this.

"Keys," she said as soon as he had parked and set foot out of the car.

"Yeah, nice to see you too," John said, planting the keys in her open palm with aggression. She only sported her adorable, matronly smile and clasped her thin fingers around them with a frightening greed.

"Mrs. H," Bill drawled, stepping out of the car and keeping his hood over his head mysteriously, like a dapper hero in a dark cloak. Upon closer look, John realized that he was now wearing a pair of dark shades over his eyes. This made the doctor roll his eyes.

"Ah, Billy," Mrs. Hudson said, smiling sweetly. "Been so long since we've seen you! How've you been holding up?"

"Best as I can, mahm," he said, doing his best to smile. "What's Shezzah up to?"

John mouthed the word "Shezzah" and looked ready to fall on the pavement in a heap of laughter. Mrs. Hudson and Bill, on the other hand, looked completely serious, so John promptly tightened his face back into its normal position.

"He's glad to have you back, that's for sure. Come on inside," she said, heading toward the door while John's brow wrinkled. "Glad to have him back?"

As they made their way to the upstairs, John could hear Rosie laughing and Molly making quizzical statements like "I honestly can't believe what we've done to you, Sherlock" and "you hardly look the same at all, it's amazing!"

"Ah, there you are, Billy. Hope you didn't crash the car, John," he could hear Sherlock say as they made their way into the flat. Upon seeing the detective, John almost fainted.

Sherlock Holmes had ceased to exist, and in his place was the exact twin of Bill Wiggins. His hair had been dirtied up, his forehead was somewhat extended, his nose looked pointier at the end, and his teeth were grimy when he smiled.

"Sherlock!" John cried, almost having to grab at the doorpost for support. "What the hell is going on?" he asked, coming up to the detective and inspecting his face, to make sure it was really him. If it weren't for the familiarity of the voice, he would have sworn he was looking at a complete stranger.

"Oi, whassup, Shez?" Bill asked, shaking his hand. "Never minded 'aving a twin 'afore. They'll never guess it was ya. Iss bound ta werk."

For the millionth time in the last few minutes, John's brow furrowed once again.

"What's...bound to work?" he asked.

Sherlock only grinned from behind his disguise.

"Billy, do you mind accompanying me to the bathroom? Oh, and Mrs. Hudson, can you get Mycroft on the phone?" Sherlock asked as both he and Billy marched toward the bathroom. John looked a bit concerned at what the dirt on Billy's clothing would do to the floor...and what Sherlock had up his sleeve in the bathroom.

The doctor was still wondering how Sherlock had managed to change his facial features so expertly. He turned to the only one in the room who could possibly give an explanation: Mrs. Hudson.

"So how long did you do disguises for your husband's drug cartel?" John asked, raising an eyebrow at the timid old woman. She blushed. "I thought it was just typing," he added, letting a smile grace his lips.

"Well, when it wasn't typing, it was doing make up and prosthetics for my husband's boys. I may or may not have had a few supplies left to work with in my kitchen, John Watson."

John laughed.

"You might as well have a bomb in your kitchen, and we'd never know," he said, chuckling until his face turned red.

It was then that he noticed Molly. She was standing in the window and looking down through a slit in the closed curtains at the empty street below.

"You...doing alright, Molly?" he asked, coming up beside her and crossing his arms over his chest.

"Hmm?" she asked, upon hearing her name.

Her face was deathly pale, and her eyes looked red. Not from crying, but from keeping them open in a daze for too long.

"Oh, yeah, sorry, John," she said, blushing (which brought a little pink to her otherwise cold cheeks). "Sherlock just surprised me, that's all."

John laughed again.

"Yeah, well, he does that to the best of us. That disguise really is something."

"I helped with his makeup, so I don't mean the disguise."

John blinked a couple times in thought. Blinking was something that helped him clear his head. Then his heart sank.

"He mentioned a wife..." Molly said, her little eyes wobbling with anxiety.

"Oh, Christ—" John blurted. "He did, did he?"

"You knew? All this time...you knew?" she asked, sucking in her breath. Mrs. Hudson was coddling Rosie in the kitchen, keeping the child away from the two adults whilst they conversed over very adult matters.

"It was a government scheme, Molly. Mycroft...cooked it up and had the two of them married. Moriarty's back, and it seemed to be the only way to finish him."

"Jim's back? But I thought he—"

"Long story, I'll explain later. The point is, the two of them got married in an attempt to blow him off for good. That's all I'm saying."

"Then where is she?"

"We don't know. Well, we didn't know...at least I didn't until this afternoon," John replied.

"So...he doesn't actually...love her? It was just a...plan of his brother's?" Molly asked, biting her lip as if she were watching a race in which the competitor she had betted on was neck and neck with a rival one.

"Well—" John began, unsure of how to proceed. Sherlock himself had admitted he'd never told Irene of any feelings for her, but from John's ordinary observational skills, it looked quite obvious that the detective had been in love.

Molly noticed the hesitation in John's eyes.

"So that's why he is the way he is," she said, interrupting him. "He's lovesick."

Molly laughed, shaking her head. Little silent tears danced in her eyes, but none of them fell from the lash to glide down the icy cheek. John was frightened, especially since he couldn't tell if she was happy or devastated...or maybe a little bit of both?

"Sherlock's...Sherlock Holmes is lovesick," she said, giggling to herself underneath a veil of emotion that only she could see. John awkwardly chuckled along with her.

"Y-yeah, he is, I guess," John replied.

"I don't think I'll ever understand him," Molly said, "but at least he's found someone who can. Even if that someone isn't me...I love him enough to be happy for him."

"Molly, you are special to him, you know," John said, clearing his throat and trying to bring some color into the pathologist's cheeks. He didn't want her to be in tears when Sherlock came out of the bathroom. "You matter to him, and you always have, you know," he added.

"That's the thing..." Molly mused, "I...I already know."

And when she smiled, John couldn't help but feel a strong knot tighten in his heart. But the true, pure, and beautiful love of Molly Hooper was something even the strongest of men could admire, and John found himself wanting to throw his arms around the young woman in such admiration.

"Who is she, though? Just...just out of curiosity," Molly said, looking at him through a pair of sheepish eyes.

"D'you, erm...d'you remember that phone he x-rayed that one time? Couple years back?" John asked, raising his eyebrows in disapproval.

Molly's whole face lit up, and her eyes almost fell out of their sockets.

"OH!" she gasped, and John laughed at her surprise. "OH! So...so it...it was his girlfriend!" she blurted, covering her mouth and laughing. "What an idiot he is...ohhhh, what an idiot. Sherlock Homes...the idiot genius."

John, although choosing not to speak through his chortles of laughter, was silently agreeing with that incredibly apt description of Sherlock Holmes: the idiot genius.

And, at this very moment, the idiot genius burst from the bathroom in all his homeless glory. He had swapped clothes with Bill Wiggins, and now the dark shades were over his eyes and the hood was over his head.

Bill followed from behind, wearing Sherlock's pajamas and robe. He didn't look anything like the detective, but the detective certainly looked like him.

"Well, John? Have I got the right armor?" he asked, his mouth open in honest inquiry.

"I've not idea what the hell you're doing, but if you want to know if you look like yourself, I'm here to tell you that...you don't."

Sherlock paused a moment. Processing.

Good answer. Probably what he was looking for.

"Okay, that'll do," he said before rushing to the door and zooming out of it and down the stairs.

"Oi! Where are you off to now?" John called.

"Nowhere you're not familiar with, John! Don't wait up!" Sherlock hollered back before landing on the floor.

"Does anyone mind telling me what exactly is going on?" John asked, looking back and forth between Molly and Mrs. Hudson and Bill Wiggins for a possible explanation. They gave him none, and the doctor was forced to slump into his armchair and wait six hours for the detective to return.

And when he did, John Watson's mind had never been so flabbergasted in its entire life.


	40. Go to Hell, Sherlock

A/N: My dearest friends, oh, I do apologize for how long it has taken for me to update, but here I am at last with chapter forty. How things have flown! We are nearing the end. I hope you all enjoy this chapter, and I hope it makes up for my tardiness. I love you all, and thank you so much for your support.

By the way, who's in favor of me submitting this to the Wattys for Fanfiction this year?

With love,

Emily :)

________________________________________________________

"So...hang on...tell me again?" John repeated, folding his hands together and sitting forward in his armchair. It was 10:30 p.m., and he had waited an entire six hours for this.

"Moriarty has people watching this house, and if I leave it, he has people to follow me. A homeless man goes in, a homeless man goes out. No one follows him, especially since they know I have a homeless network.

"But, before I left, I called Mycroft on this," he said, revealing an infinitesimal ear piece hidden under the mats of his dirty hair, "and asked him to get a hold of Craig for me and have him search the brothers' social databases and messages again, but this time to search for anything related to St. Paul's or hell. I was in direct communication with him the entire time, and Craig, I'm sure, was thrilled to receive a commission from the British government.

"I sat in Hyde Park for three hours begging for coins. If anyone suspected me, this would have completely thrown them off. My patience garnered five pence and one pound," Sherlock said, pulling a coin out of his dirty shoe and flipping it in the air.

"Okay, yeah—then Mycroft called you back?"

"Patience, John. But yes, after three hours of sitting in Hyde Park, he did call me back. He told me exactly what I'd expected: that both brothers had received a message while in China via the Chinese messaging application WeChat, the data of which is not widely accessible during overreaching data searches, which explains why we hadn't seen it before. They had each received the message, and exactly two seconds later, they had deleted it. Both read 'the road to St. Paul's is the road to hell.' Why I hadn't thought to search for it before escapes me, but we know now, and that's what matters."

"Okay, then you went to St. Paul's?" John asked, impatiently.

Sherlock's eyes glimmered from beneath his scruffy, dusted exterior.

"No, I didn't."

John's brow furrowed, and his eyes demanded an explanation.

"Course he didn't," Bill Wiggins butted in, smirking at Sherlock from his place on the sofa. Molly giggled, and Mrs. Hudson shook her head in silent laughter. John was fuming just a bit.

"Wait, hang on—" John interrupted, "so, you didn't go to St. Paul's?"

"No, why would I?" the detective asked, blinded by his friend's apparent stupidity. "I've been there a thousand times in the last five months already searching for nonexistent clues. Why would I go back there and waste more time? Time that I didn't have? The reality was, John, that I'd been staring the solution in the face and it had evaded my notice until today. I didn't go St. Paul's, John, because I was never supposed to go there in the first place."

"Then...where were you supposed to go?" he asked.

"The road to St. Paul's is the road to hell, John. The road to St. Paul's. The road. I asked myself what it meant...over and over. It seemed to get me nowhere. I tried all the streets, all the suburbs around the cathedral, and I searched the cathedral itself for possible clues or passageways. Nothing.

"But what if it wasn't the road to the cathedral? What if St. Paul's was never supposed to even mean the cathedral? What if it meant the road to St. Paul's station? St. Paul's station, John! Don't you see?" Sherlock asked, his voice suggesting major enthusiasm.

John's little head was near the point of bursting. He sucked in his breath.

"Oh my God!"

Sherlock laughed under his breath as he saw the realization sweep John's bewildered mind.

"Exactly," he mused, smiling devilishly.

"Yeah, okay—and? What did you find?" he asked, raising his eyebrows and studying the detective earnestly, as if every second on the clock mattered.

In a way, it actually did.

"Exactly what I had expected to..." Sherlock said, his bursting heart clear on his radiant face. He had done something incredible.

"After another hour of sitting in the station waiting for coins, just to throw off any last dogs who might have been trailing my scent, I waited for the traffic to disperse before dropping off one of the platforms and following one of the trains that had departed. If my schedule was right, which it normally is, there wouldn't be another train for ten minutes, so I had to hurry.

"Mycroft, as most of us know by now, has several maps of subterranean London, and it proved incredibly useful. Many of the underground shelters built during World War II still exist, but are unused and closed to the public. My brother found such a one that actually led toward the cathedral and let out in the crypt, where Wellington was buried...Wellington, the Duke of Wellington. Don't you see? Wellington? It's yet another connection to our dead Wellington brothers. And either way, the passage is a road to St. Paul's: the station and the cathedral.

"I followed the Underground for about a quarter mile with Mycroft guiding me. He had my exact location in front of him in his office by way of my Bluetooth, which he usually uses to track me. Why I still wear it I'm not sure, but..." He sighed. "Brother knows best."

John crossed his arms and laughed, a hint of annoyance peppering his breath.

"Finding a rotting door in the tunnel side, I shouldered into it a few times to try and force it open, but it was incredibly secure for its age. Most of the tunnels below the Underground are easily broken into. The fact that this one was a bit more secure suggested recent activity. In the end, I resorted to a few picks I had brought along, which I used to play with the lock. It worked like a charm, and I was in. I assume the lack of security was meant as a bluff—maybe even a double bluff. Loads of locks and keys would have suggested something beneath the surface, but an old rotting door with little to no security was nothing worth noticing. Well, at least to not to someone like me, anyway," he said, grinning at his own intellect.

John laughed and rolled his eyes in a humored way. "Sherlock," he chuckled under his breath.

The detective continued with his fascinating narrative.

"Despite the small security additions made to the door, the tunnel's interior was still the same as that of when it was first constructed. The dirt walls, dirt floor, and poor headlighting. Nothing much had been done to improve the inside, so it wasn't being used as a hideout of any kind, which I was thankful for.

"About a minute into following this passage," Sherlock continued, "which continued to dive deeper into the ground, I started noticing wires taped or stapled—I couldn't tell which—into the walls, and at intervals, each thread of wires ran into a tiny box with blinking red lights. Upon closer inspection, I found that each box was an explosive.

"Alerting my brother to this, he deliberately instructed me to follow the passage all the way to where it lets out in the crypt, which I did, carefully. After a brief inspection, it seemed that none of the boxes were equipped with timers, so, theoretically, they could have gone off at any moment."

John gasped. "Jesus, Sherlock! Of all the bloody stupid—"

"I was given no other choice, John. What would you have had me do? Turned 'round and never come to the end of it?"

The doctor swallowed and remained silent. He had a lot of suggestions, but he knew that if he wanted to keep his cool for the rest of the night, staying shut up was the best decision.

"When I came to the end of the tunnel, the only exit was at the top, which appeared to be a square trap in the floor above. Someone had left a ladder inside, either during the days of the Blitz or more recently during Moriarty's planning...the latter of which seems more likely. At the foot of the ladder was situated the largest of the boxes in the tunnel, and I presumed it was the detonator. Minding my steps, I started to climb the ladder, making sure not to shake it and thereby disturb the sleeping giant at its foot. I was able to push the tile open and I came out into a very dark and very quiet crypt. The tunnel let out just in front of the Duke of Wellington's tomb, which was the nail in the coffin, confirming to me that we had indeed cracked Eurus's riddle."

Sherlock exhaled, leaned back in his chair, joined his fingertips, and looked incredibly pleased with himself. John's cocked his head in inquiry.

"And? The bombs? Did you deactivate them?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed.

"Oh, that. Right. Of course. Mycroft's going to have some of his boys take care of it tonight, and that will be the end of that."

Molly's breath caught. "The...the end of it? You mean...that's it?"

Sherlock looked concerned that his companions were still asking about it.

"Yes, that's it."

John's face was looked like it had been pretzel-ized.

"That's...it? You mean there are no more of Moriarty's schemes to worry about? It's done?" he asked, his voice suggesting internal chaos and confusion.

Sherlock chuckled. "I don't understand what's so complicated about it. We've figured it out. That's the end of the riddle."

"But isn't there so much more? I mean, Moriarty isn't going to just sit around and let you diffuse his bombs. He's—"

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, sarcastically attempting to listen.

John's tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

"Because—because he's—well, he's Moriarty. You really think he's going to let that happen?"

Sherlock stuck his tongue into his cheek.

"If he doesn't know it's happening, then yes."

The entire room was quiet except for Rosie, who was laughing as she played with one of Molly's bracelets. Sherlock averted John's gaze, as he felt the iron stare going too deep for his liking...the doctor might find something worth scrutinizing. Mrs. Hudson looked concerned, but was without an argument. Molly, likewise, was bumping Rosie up and down on her leg, but her face was a tapestry of confusion.

John opened his mouth to raise another query, but Bill Wiggins interrupted him from the sofa, "So does this mean I can 'ave my clothes back now? I've gotta get back..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and gestured toward the bathroom. The two "homeless" men got up and went to change. As the door shut, John glanced at the other two adults in the room.

"Do you think he's serious?"

Molly didn't answer, but busied herself by sticking her nose in Rosie's hair.

"If he had any other secrets, John," Mrs. Hudson said, gently, "he didn't tell us. I think maybe he's telling the truth."

"How can you say that?" John demanded, raising his voice. Molly flailed her arms in agitation, signaling to John to keep his voice down.

"Why can't you believe him, John?" Molly asked, whispering.

"No, let me ask you this: why don't you believe him, Molly? Why don't you believe him? Because I know you aren't stupid enough to believe that it's all over. Just like that."

Molly's face had turned red, and John could see that he was right: she didn't believe it either. None of them could have—it was ridiculous. Bloody ridiculous! Moriarty's plans weren't simple. They weren't foiled easily. They weren't done.

"He seems sure of himself," Molly replied. "Can't that be enough for you, John?"

"Exactly: he seems sure of himself, but the conclusion he came to is rubbish. He's not telling us everything. He knows this isn't the end, and he isn't telling us what's next."

"But we're his friends, John. We have to trust him, don't we?" Mrs. Hudson asked, rhetorically. "We're all he has, and he expects us to believe him."

John mouthed the word.

Trust?

"You mean he expects us to believe that that's all?"

"John—" Molly reasoned, giving the doctor a knowing look.

But he shook his head, determined to believe that all was not right as the detective had declared it. All was not what it seemed.

Something was wrong.

Terribly, horribly wrong.

"Why would he lie to us, John?" Molly asked, searing his brain.

"I dunno," John admitted, "but what I do know is that it can't be this easy. All of Moriarty's planning, the two murders, the attempt on Mycroft's life, Irene getting up and leaving like she did unexplained, for God's sake! The fact that he gave the message to Eurus...no. There has to be something more. Moriarty isn't this stupid, or this simple, and Sherlock knows it. Something isn't right."

Molly's face clouded a little, and John noticed it but said nothing.

He looked up as Sherlock and Bill came out of the bathroom a moment later, each wearing the other's clothes, and Sherlock's face wiped clean. Seeing the three of them—four, including the baby—all sitting uncomfortably together, the detective chuckled.

"Look at you lot. What have I done now, eh? I've just saved the whole of metropolitan London, and by the looks of your faces, people might think the world were ending tomorrow. Any explanations?"

"Oh, I dunno," John instantly piped up, "I just—Sherlock...I think there's a lot more to this than...than you think."

"Do you?"

"Yeah, I do. I do, Sherlock. I mean, honestly: do you think Moriarty is that simple? All the planning he's done, those two murders he left, Mycroft, Irene, Eurus's message? Sherlock, you can't honestly believe that he is going to just...let this happen. This isn't over."

"I never said it was, John."

John's eyes crumpled into a ball of confusion on his forehead. "What? What do you mean you never said that? You said—"

"I said we could diffuse the bombs. I never said there wouldn't be anything else."

"So, are you saying you know something else is coming?"

"John...I need you to do something for me. All of you. I need your confidence and your assurance. Please. For me. I need something."

"Oh Christ, Sherlock—"

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" Molly asked.

"Anything, Sherlock, anything," Mrs. Hudson added.

"I need...I need you to trust me. More than anything now. I need you...I need you to trust me completely and genuinely. I need you not to ask questions. I don't expect you to, honestly, because I know this doesn't make sense. Believe me...it still doesn't to me either, but...I need you to trust me. Please. Can you please just...trust me?"

Bill Wiggins had exited the conversation minutes before and was now waiting downstairs by the front door impatiently. He wasn't among the three that Sherlock was addressing now.

John's mouth was open. The pounding pulse in his skull was louder than his own breath, and he almost felt...no, he did feel a sense of overwhelming fear rushing over his bones and down into his feet.

"Why...won't you just tell us—eh, Sherlock? Why not?!" John prodded, his mouth tightening like a wrench around a rusted nut.

"John—"

"You're not dying again, Sherlock."

Sherlock's breath caught, and he watched as he saw the doctor's eyes start to gleam. And the reflection of the lights wasn't doing it. John breathed intensely through his nose, as if sniffing hard would also push the water back into his forehead.

"John, I—"

"Sherlock, for God's sake, do not—do not die again. Do not...do it. I mean, actually do it. Because if that's what you're hiding from us, then—"

John stopped talking and bit his lip. His voice had not broken. His eyes were not wet. He was perfectly fine, completely normal, and unwilling to let his resolve crack, but Sherlock could see it. Sherlock could see the hidden panic in the war-torn soldier's eyes.

"I won't die. I promise, John. I won't die."

John spoke not one word, and Mrs. Hudson was studying him as a mother looks at a son who weeps over having broken his favorite toy soldier. Molly had a little tear on her cheek, and she too was letting possibilities run through her mind.

"I won't die. I...I just need you to trust me. Please...can you do that for me? I need you to help me. To do as I say. To not ask questions. I don't deserve it of any of you after all the hell God knows I've put you through, but please...if you care...if you care about your lives...then you have to trust me. I...I know what I'm doing."

Silence from every creature sitting in the room.

Sherlock inhaled slowly so as not to disturb this precious silence. It felt like that. Precious. He didn't know why.

"Please."

He said it again, this time almost desperately. Frantic clutched with a quivering hand at the tail end of the word. His forehead was starting to sweat. There was nothing more he could say, and he couldn't make them understand how important this was.

"Okay, Sherlock..." John whispered, nodding in what looked like submission. It looked like it had taken every ounce of determination to swallow his pride. "We...I, at least. I trust you. You're my best friend, Sherlock, and God knows you're right most of the time. I won't say all, but most. I'll trust you, and I'll do it well."

He extended his hand for Sherlock to take. They were shaking on it. Two men had struck a bargain, and their friendship had been tightened by this blind trust—tightened in the same way a violin string is tuned from tension.

Sherlock slipped his hand into John's and met his gaze. His friend's eyes were secure. Apprehensive if anything, but secure.

Sherlock's hand pressed John's and their promise was made.

"Thank you, John," the detective muttered, grappling John's hand with his other one as well. "I...I will not disappoint you. I swear to God. I won't."

"You'd better," John said. And Sherlock couldn't tell if he was teasing or if he really meant it. There was something akin to jest in John's eyes, but the hint of doubt ruined the mirth's presence.

...

Sitting in bed an hour after everyone had left, Sherlock Holmes still hadn't fallen asleep. His head was racing a million miles a minute, and his heartbeat wouldn't let him fall asleep.

It was so damn loud.

He put his hands over his face and as if he could muffle the commotion of his thoughts in the expectation of blissful rest. He almost wanted to cry. Maybe he was crying...he couldn't really tell.

Thin, icy chains were slipping themselves around his heart and all he could feel was the weight of this new discovery.

Good God. What had he done?

Why couldn't he just sleep?

John was unconvinced, and Sherlock had wholly expected him to be. No one could have believed that this was the end of it. Of course, John was right: Moriarty wasn't going to just sit around.

Sherlock just hadn't...well...expected it to go on like this.

He'd have to find her soon...quickly. Mycroft knew where she was. Maybe Moriarty did, too. He didn't have much time left.

Tick, tock...goes the clock...

Because Sherlock knew June 18 would be here soon.

Mary had posthumously told him it was coming. He had always known there was something to come.

Only two months until June 18: the day Sherlock Holmes would go to hell.

So he closed his eyes.

And he dreamt about her.


	41. Persona Non Grata

Sherlock woke the next morning, and realized—to his despair—that he'd slept in terribly late. He didn't do that unless he was troubled about something. "Troubled" was a good word to express the events of last night.

He sat up and waited a moment, feeling he might fall over if he stood. His head was incredibly light, and he closed his eyes against the sensation of nausea.

Suddenly, like a single lightbulb being flicked on in a tar black warehouse or a drop of water falling smack dab in the middle of a desert, it happened.

His nose exulted. His brain was firing off. That smell. Oh God, that smell. He hadn't smelt that in the last five months, and here it was, floating into his nostrils and setting off neurons in his brain. It was undeniable; unforgettable.

Parfum.

It seemed to clear the fog from his head, and he forgot all about the nauseous sensation in the back of his brain. Slowly opening his bedroom door, he crept out and ventured into the kitchen, each step slow and strategic.

The kitchen window was open. The same window that had been opened the last time. It was small, but it would serve as a cat flap. He knew that much. It had served as such the first time—why wouldn't it now?

Slowly making his way toward John's bedroom, he found the door ajar. Pushing it open gently, he found exactly what he had expected to see: a small figure with long, dark brown hair over its shoulders and lying in his bed...facing the wall but breathing steadily.

"It's about time. I've been expecting you," Sherlock said, standing by the bed and waiting until he could see the face. It was a face he hadn't seen in quite a while.

"I've been expecting myself."

Sherlock snickered.

"Clever entrance. All but the breathing. She has a very distinct pattern of breath that even you couldn't pull off perfectly. And, if I may say this without inciting jealousy, the curves aren't nearly as defined."

And the face in the bed turned toward him. Slowly removing the brown hair from the oily head and rising from mock slumber was Jim Moriarty, present and living in Sherlock's own flat.

"Well, I figured I ought to come by and give you some help. You've been doing rather poorly, Sherlock. I was so excited for this one, but it hasn't been nearly as fun as last time. I think you're getting slow. Age...it's catching up to you," the villain taunted, rubbing his eyes like an infant rising from an afternoon nap.

"What were you expecting?" Sherlock asked, leaning against the doorway and watching as Moriarty sat up in the bed, wrapping one of the blankets around his shoulders like a cocoon.

"I was expecting Sherlock Holmes," he said, miming a disappointed look on his face. "I've had to settle for Bobo the clown. It's been such a letdown."

Silence from both parties resonated through the little bedroom.

"You've missed her, haven't you? Poor Sherlock. You got so ordinary for a while there, didn't you? I think you're just having withdrawals. You'll be over it soon," Moriarty droned on, shaking his head at Sherlock as if he were some sad psychotic patient with very poor cognitive results.

"I know where she is, if that's what you're wondering," the detective blurted, hoping to throw off the criminal's cynicism.

"No, I KNOW that. I know where she is, too. Don't be stupid, Sherlock. But then again..." he breathed through his gritted teeth and winced, "that's what I'm talking about, isn't it? You couldn't just leave it alone, could you? Poor ordinary Sherlock getting all lovesick. Bleh," he gagged, making the heaving noise and pretending to vomit into one of the pillows. "It's disgusting. I thought you liked meeeee..."

"I know what you've done," Sherlock parried, disregarding everything else.

"You know what I've done, or what I'm going to do?" Moriarty asked, scratching his forehead and looking incurably bored. He even yawned—whether it was fake or not, Sherlock couldn't tell.

"Both," he replied.

"Oof, well than I am in trouble," Moriarty squeaked. "I just wonder though...when are you going to face it? Finally just do it?"

"June 18, just like you've arranged, of course."

"Oho," he laughed, "That's my boy. So you now you don't have all the time in the world, then. That's good." He nodded contemplatively. "Not as slow as I thought you were," he added, apparently making note of things in his brain.

"The anniversary of Wellington's victory at Waterloo. Most appropriate date I could think of. It couldn't have been anything else," Sherlock recited, as though he had rehearsed this bit several times before.

"Attaboy..." the maniac crooned, smiling freakishly.

"Why've you come?" Sherlock asked, wanting to cut to the chase.

"To give you a bit of help, but from the looks of things I don't have to wait too long for the fun to begin. When are you going to go see the misses then?" he asked in that ridiculous singsong voice of his.

"I can't leave the country," the detective asserted.

"Since when did that stop you?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He only met his opponent's gaze with a firm, agitated stare. There was anger rising within his chest like the tide at sunset.

"I've a present for youuuu," Jim drawled on.

"Don't need it."

"Nah, you don't need it. You just want it."

"Really don't."

"I say you dooo," he taunted, throwing a piece of paper onto the sheets in front of him.

It looked like a photograph, but it had landed on the sheets upside down. Moriarty caught Sherlock's eye, and the two stared at one another as though each were a deer caught in headlights.

"Pick it up, then, Sherlock old boy. For daddy, why don't you?" Moriarty asked, his teeth gleaming through his rather scruffy lips. He hadn't shaved in a few days.

Sherlock picked up the photograph. Turning it over without a second thought, he let his gaze fall on the image in his hands. The blood rushed into his face and he could feel his pulse transition from a walk to a run.

She was alive.

She was...dear God, she was even more beautiful than he had remembered her.

It was all there: the thin lines down her pale cheeks, the moderately subtle way her red lips curved, and the crystalline blue of those round eyes. Her hair was down this time, not pinned up. It was a windy day, and he could almost feel the breeze streaming out of the photograph, bringing a few strands of wispy, brown threads with it to tickle his face.

He didn't bother with photographs. Those were stupid. With a mind like his, one doesn't have a need for photographs. He remembered everything and could see everything in his mind palace, and didn't have need for a piece of paper to remind him what someone looked like.

But he hadn't seen a picture so clear, so distinct, so true of her since she had left him on the floor those five months earlier.

He swallowed, tried to pretend he wasn't at a loss for words. More than anything he just wanted to fold it, shove it in his pocket, and never let anyone else look at it.

But he couldn't do that.

So he threw it in Moriarty's lap—feeling as though it were the most sacrilegious thing in the world—and crossed his arms over his chest.

"You're bad at pretending to not care," Moriarty teased, grinning. "I thought you'd like it," he added, pouting miserably.

"Why?" Sherlock asked. He knew he was weaving a web for himself, but he didn't like remaining speechless when challenged.

"Just so you know that I'm keeping my eye on her. I'm making sure she's safe. Thought you'd like to know since you...love her so very much," he spluttered and mocked.

"You think I care," Sherlock laughed, turning around and going for the door.

"No. I don't think you care. You do, Sherlock. You think you care. Deep down, you really don't. You tell yourself you do because of the way you feel. You're just an animal, you know. Highly evolved animal...trained to breed. The desire for offspring is natural. You don't feel anything for her because there isn't anything to feel. Just instinct. You're compensating."

"Shut up," Sherlock snapped, looking over his shoulder from where he stood in the doorway. "On June 18, are we both going to die, or not?" he asked, narrowing his eyebrows.

Moriarty's head was bent, but his eyes eerily looked upwards to match the detective's. His lips cracked a small smile, he breathed a small, infinitesimal laugh. He brought his hands together and interlocked the fingers.

"Oh, Sherlock...we're gonna do more than just die. Dying is borinnnng."

He stopped, closed his eyes, and swished around his tongue as though savoring something utterly delectable.

"...We're gonna go to hell," he finished, each word sending a shiver down the detective's spine. "And you have to be ready to come with me. I won't make you come, but you owe me."

Sherlock swallowed.

"Then you really shouldn't give a damn what I do in the time I have left," he said.

"No, you're right. I shouldn't..."

He got up from his place in the bed and walked toward the door where Sherlock was. It was a small door, so when Moriarty stopped midway through it to look up at Sherlock, their faces were quite close.

"...But I do," Moriarty said, his disgusting breath making Sherlock's nose cry in protest. Despite this, the detective was unflinching. The criminal made his way into the sitting room and looked around, apparently searching for something.

He found a half-eaten biscuit on the coffee table and sat in Sherlock's arm chair. The detective sat opposite him, in John's chair, and swung his left leg over his right one.

"You're not gonna be where you think you are on June 18, Sherlock."

"No, I'll be in hell, remember?"

"Psh," he huffed. "Exactly. It'll be so fun. I'm so excited," he said.

"I hope so."

"Proper playtime."

"Yes," Sherlock replied, his voice drifting into a sleepy drawl. He had just thought of something.

"Do you think we'll get long distance reception in hell? In case we need to call anyone still alive?" he asked, drumming his fingers on his knees.

Moriarty said nothing. He only grinned—grinned like a child under the Christmas tree. Then he snickered lightly, air rushing through his nose and clenched teeth.

"I think so," he said. "You're going to make this interesting, aren't you, Sherlock?"

There was a smug smile that drifted over the detective's face as he formulated a reply. The cogs in his mind were rolling now—rolling so fast he was having trouble keeping up. But he knew what to say.

"It will be the best of times."

Moriarty added, "And the worst of times, Sherlock old boy."

"My thoughts...exactly."

The two of them sat glaring at one another without any visible hatred or malice actually showing up on their features. You'd have thought the two of them were merely coming together to play a game of chess. That's what it felt like to the both of them: chess. Chess with higher—infinitely higher—stakes. But it was still a game. Because whatever happened, they'd both be dead in the end anyway.

Eventually.

...when they died.

Cutting it a little early wasn't doing anything special.

"I'd better be off, then," Moriarty said. "I need to get my toys ready. My plane collection. Also the building blocks. I might be short of a few dolls, too. Ahaha," he laughed, "I'm getting ahead of myself already. There's just—so many—so many fun things going on. I can't help myself. I'm so terribly excited." He laughed to himself like a man laughs when he's walked outside without shoes in his haste. Silly.

"I'll see you soon, then, Sherlock. I'll see you soon. Give your regards to Eurus, by the way. It's been a...been a while since I've seen her. Tell her how pretty she was. Let her know for me, would you?"

"Of course," Sherlock said, getting to his feet and showing the man to the door. He even held it open for him.

"Proper gentleman you are, Sherlock."

"Least I can do."

"Yeah, that's true. You'll thank me later."

"Probably won't."

"Nah, I say you will."

"Bye bye."

"Pip pip, Sherlock."

And the man walked out of the flat, his brown wig dangling at his side as he carried it with him. Each step he took down the stairs, Sherlock watched him. Each silent, noiseless, careful step was strategic and placed. That meant more than just the staircase.

Moriarty turned one last time and smiled.

The smile sent a shiver down Sherlock's spine, but he said nothing. He grabbed the brass knob, kept his eyes on the beast, and shut the door without another word. He went to the window and waited until he saw him cross the street and hail a cab.

The cab drove off and turned, businesses and residences blocking it from view. He let the curtain fall and returned to his armchair. He looked down at the blue pyjamas he was still wearing, and his stomach cried out for a crumb of food—he'd not eaten all morning.

Oh well.

It was going to be one of those days.

There was no way he was getting to Russia by fussing over breakfast.


	42. Forked Pieces

Forgive me for the delay in updating, beautiful friends. Summer term ended last week, and there were lots of exams and essays, and already I've been plunged into the fall term. Also, prayers for my mother would be greatly appreciated, as she's having a difficult time health-wise right now and is getting ready for some medical procedures coming up. She's the one who has helped me cultivate my writing (I was homeschooled), and you all owe my story partly to her!

As I continue to work on this, your patience is so appreciated, but I am working as hard as I can to get this novel finished before the year is over! Hopefully we can submit to the Wattys next year (*insert sad emoji*). Thank you so much for your support, and I'm so thankful for your support! 8.1k reads on Wattpad and #1 in Adlock stories! 12.4k reads on FF, and nearly 3k hits on AO3! Thank you!

Also, enjoy this new chapter.

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"You’re telling me what?!”

“John, please be reasonable.”

“I am being reasonable, you’re being ridiculous! This is bloody insane! Sherlock, you can’t do this.”

“I can and I have to, John. It’s the only way.”

“No, no, no, no. No, there’s gotta be—there’s gotta be another way. Don’t tell me there isn’t. You said you could diffuse all the explosives!”

“All of them—except the last one, John. The last one is the largest, and without the others it is less powerful, but not powerless. We can diffuse it, but only if we synchronize our actions with the detonator and the bomb’s wiring. We cut the main red wire at the same time we cancel the detonation of the bomb. There’s no other way.”

“How long before detonation do we do this?”

“Five seconds,” Mycroft replied. He’d had his boys go down and take a look at the bomb. They’d run diagnostics and given him the details of the situation.

“Christ,” John cursed. “And the detonator is in—”

“Yes.”

“Oh my god.”

“I didn’t think it would come to this, and I didn’t want it to, but I see no other explanation. That’s why she left all those months ago. She has the detonator.”

“Did she take it? On purpose?”

“I don’t know. She said it wasn’t my fault.”

“Was she forced?”

“No one forces that woman to do anything. It was her own choice,” Sherlock said. “I don’t know why she’s done it, but she has. There has to have been a reason.”

“I am convinced of her loyalty,” Mycroft added. “She didn’t do this willingly. But the fact that she did it tells me she had reasons. And whatever they were, they weren’t malevolent reasons.”

“How can you be so sure?” John asked. Sherlock could see his confidence in the woman slowly deteriorating.

The doctor nibbled a bit of dry skin peeling off his thumb, and Mycroft was standing by the fireplace, refusing to say anything. They had two months now until June 18, and their plan was looking more and more like a suicide mission.

Sherlock had disclosed the information he had chosen to keep private the week before.

Mycroft’s team had not diffused all the bombs. It was impossible to do so. They had diffused all of them, except for the final one…the largest one: the one sitting at the opening to the crypt in St. Paul’s.

Upon further inspection, it was discovered that this explosive could only be disarmed through the synchronization of the detonator and the cutting of a wire within the bomb’s actual makeup itself. This had to be done five seconds before detonation.

Sherlock needed that detonator. The detonator wasn’t even in England. It was in Kirov, Russia. It was in the hands of his wife.

“Can’t you just bring the detonator back here?” Mycroft asked.

“It’s most likely location locked. Most detonators of that nature are. It has to be within a certain radius of Kirov in order for it to remain active. You can’t take it anywhere.”

John put his head in his hands.

Mycroft spluttered, “But that’s—”

“Clever,” Sherlock replied. “Moriarty told me himself: ‘You’re not gonna be where you think you are on June 18, Sherlock.’ He was right. I’m not going to be under London. I’m going to be in Russia.”

“So then—” John started, “who’s going to be manning the bomb itself? Who’s going to cut the wire?” he asked, his eyes bulging with anxiety for the answer.

Sherlock said nothing. He had not thought of that up until this very meeting, and if he were being honest, he didn’t want to have to choose. There was no one who knew about Moriarty’s plan apart from than the two people standing in the room with him. His skin grew bumps as he felt a cold chill fill the air. He was determined not to utter a word to either of them.

Then a throat was cleared.

A head was lifted.

Sherlock’s eyes shot up, and he found himself almost wishing he’d volunteered himself.

“I will.”

The voice met his ears and sent ice shooting through his veins.

It was Mycroft.

Sherlock met his gaze. His brother had a bent smile crossing his face as he tightened his tie and straightened his collar. He put his arms at his sides like a soldier on the eve of a skirmish, reporting to his commander.

“You?” Sherlock asked, barely above a whisper. He needed the assistance, God knew he did, but did he really need it this badly?

“Yes, me,” Mycroft replied. “You need someone who understands the situation, and there is no one outside of this room that I would trust enough to disclose this information to. It is the three of us from here on out, gentlemen,” he said, forcing a smile to cross his face.

“No, I won’t allow this.”

It was John. His eyes were wide, and Sherlock wondered if he saw water glistening on the surface.

“You’re his brother, Mycroft, you ought to go with him. I’ll stay, and I…I’ll do it,” John countered, standing and pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace.

“No, I won’t hear of it,” Mycroft once again replied. “He needs you in Russia with him, John…he needs you there more than he needs me. You…you are family, John Watson. If there’s anyone who is going with him to Russia, it is you. I…I have my purpose here, and I can see no one else who ought to remain behind. I will not have it any other way.”

“Mycroft—“ Sherlock began, his words hitching in the back of his throat.

“I won’t argue with you, Sherlock,” his brother replied.

“I’m not inviting you to. I’ll stay and man the bomb. I can cut the wire. You go to Russia—John will go with you—and I’ll be here. I know the plan better than both of you, anyway.”

“Let me stay behind. I can cut the wire, Mycroft. You and John go to Russia. Let me stay here. I…I can do it just as well as you can,” Sherlock said, sweat starting to gather on his quizzical brow.

Mycroft sighed with what he would have called righteous annoyance.

“If I were to arrive in Kirov with Doctor Watson and look for your wife, and you weren’t present to meet her, I imagine things…would not go terribly well,” Mycroft insisted.

“That doesn’t matter now.”

“Your wife has not seen you for six months, Sherlock. Are you not inclined to see her after so long a time?”

“That doesn’t matter now.”

“You’re terrible at pretending, Sherlock. You always have been.”

“For God’s sake, Mycroft! It doesn’t matter!”

“It absolutely matters!”

There was a tone of silent urgency in Mycroft’s raised voice, and his eyes were no longer the cold, icy stigma that Sherlock had recognized them by his entire life. There was something…what would you say? Warm? Something warm about those eyes?

Sherlock found concern in them: deep-rooted, honest, and legitimate concern. It took him by surprise, for he had never seen that there before. He fought off a sudden desire to throw his arms around his brother and cry like the little brother he had never been allowed to be.

John watched the two men exchange a silent discourse, wherein the elder lowered himself to the feelings of the younger, and the younger felt it: touched, humbled, and at a complete and utter loss for words.

“Alright,” Sherlock said, his voice barely audible. After the impeccable silence, it felt almost unholy to say a word. He wet his lips nervously and met his brother’s unwavering gaze.

“I will stay,” Mycroft said, affirming his declaration. Sherlock only nodded silently.

“Yes,” the younger responded.

“And you will find the detonator, and we will put an end to this. Once and for all,” he added, his voice deepening to a dark whisper. “If Moriarty wants to play with us, let us give him one hell of a game, Sherlock. And if this is to be our last game, then let us play our pieces tactfully. Play wisely, brother mine,” he said.

After a pause, he gently added, with a hint of assurance in his voice, “Deliver the checkmate.”

Then he grasped his brother’s hand with both of his own, and a pang of warmth shot up Sherlock’s arm, all the way into his conflicted, torn heart. John had to sniff to break the silence; this was something he had never before witnessed.

Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time Mycroft had seized his hand like that—seized his hand with such feeling. Perhaps that had never even happened before. The detective considered that the most likely of scenarios.

He was almost reeling with the amount of pressure his brother was lending to the grip. It was so much more than mere muscular function. There was a thought pounding behind the arm’s vice: a thought of love, of hope, and of genuine brotherly affection.

“Thank you, Mycroft,” Sherlock said.

“You…” Mycroft said, suddenly halting in the middle of the word. “You’re welcome, brother mine. And whatever happens, remember that neither coincidence nor accident will not be among the outcome.”

“The universe is rarely so lazy,” Sherlock finished, remembering his brother’s oft-quoted mantra. The two smiled, and Sherlock almost found the courage to embrace him, but thought better of it.

He wouldn’t push his luck.

“John,” Sherlock said, turning his gaze to the doctor whose eyes were wide with the current display of affection from the two most calculating brothers he had ever known. Sherlock’s address startled him.

“Oh…yeah?” he asked, blinking out of a grandma seizure.

“We’d better be off to Russia.”

The doctor coughed nervously, wrinkled his nose out of habit, and straightened up mechanically in his seat like the soldier he was.

“Yeah, I guess we’d better.”

“The game is on?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah…the game is definitely back on.”


	43. Kirov

A/N: Wow, what is wrong with me?? It has been two months since I last posted! TWO MONTHS! I know this is unacceptable, friends, and you may chastise me accordingly. I beg your forgiveness for delaying so long, but here it is: a chapter that I have been working on and waiting to show you for so very long. Thank you thank you thank you for waiting! Life has been ridiculous lately, and I am so grateful to you all for understanding. I hope you enjoy... 

ALSO! Nadya Ivanova, the Russian character of my own creation in this chapter, is based off of a real friend of mine named Marina who lives in Moscow. Thanks to Marina, I was able to research and get a first-hand look into the Russian city, Kirov (where this chapter takes place). I want to give a big thank you to Marina for helping me along, and for putting up with my very foreign presumptions about Russian culture. "It's the police, not the militsiya!" *embarrassed laughter ensues*

In short, thank you, Marina!

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One day until detonation.

One day until detonation.

One day until detonation.

It wouldn't stop ringing in his ears. The date? June 17. Tomorrow would be June 18; the day Sherlock Holmes would go to hell. He was perfectly aware of the plan. He had rehearsed it a million times over in his steel trap of a brain, and he believed he was ready to engage in the action and leave the rehearsals behind. 

The game was on.

John was standing with him along the wall of an empty, stone alleyway. A single bin was overflowing near the mouth of the alley, rubbish cascading down its side like a waterfall. The ground was damp from the rain, which had only recently stopped, and the air was full of the fresh, pungent scent of petrichor. The moon had come out from behind the clouds and revealed itself in its full light, casting an eerie white glow onto the otherwise black alley and still, unnerved faces. Somewhere afar off, a solitary car drove through a puddle and the splash of the water against the pavement whispered gently to the air. Sherlock said nothing, and John took a deep breath of wet oxygen.

"When did you say she'd be here, Sherlock?" John asked, his teeth clenched together as he spoke. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets.

"She'll be here."

"Yeah, but when?"

"Quarter till."

"It's a quarter till now."

"She'll be here."

"She bloody well should be," John huffed, ending the curt dialogue. They had been sitting in this alley for thirty minutes, and the war doctor was beginning to grow uneasy. Kirov reminded him of those cold, quiet cities where people went missing and no one cared. For his first time in Russia, this alleyway was the last place he wanted to be.

"Privet, Mr. Sherlock."

The two men spun around, facing a small, petticoated young Russian girl with chin-length, flaming red hair. Her mouth was unsmiling, but her eyes were gentle, if a tiny bit suspicious. The moon's light reflected off of the wet, deep red of her lip gloss, making her round mouth shimmer in the night. She had a cigarette in her left hand, billowing wisps of smoke twirling around her fingers. She raised it to her lips and inhaled.

"Ah, Nina. Good to see you," Sherlock said, extending his arm to the girl. John was confused; he watched Sherlock shake the girl's hand as she squeezed his in return.

"You still set on calling me Nina, eh?" she asked, smirking mischievously. A bit of smoke came out of her mouth, leaving John Watson mesmerized that so young a person could smoke so expertly. Sherlock laughed.

"Spirited as ever, Miss Ivanova. How are you?"

"I'm well, Mr. Sherlock, and you?"

"Quite well." He turned to John, whose eyebrows had been sown together in obvious confusion. "John, this is Nadya Ivanova. Her family was kind enough to harbor me in their home during the two years following my suicide. Nadya was only fourteen at the time, but showed a keen interest in the field. She even helped me with a few cases, if I remember correctly?"

"You do," the girl replied, smiling curtly. Her voice was firm, and draped with a light Russian accent. "Mr. Sherlock was quite the troublemaker," she continued. "We had the police crawling all over us for almost a year. But my parents didn't mind. Mr. Mycroft paid well, he did."

"How is your family? I've not had the pleasure of seeing them in a while."

"We get on," the girl shrugged. "They have me applying to Oxford for admission next fall. Not like I even want to go to England."

"And...what is so bad about England?" John asked, his eyebrows taking offence.

"Nothing in particular; just the distance from home." A bit of a cloud came to rest over Nadya's pleasant face. Her lips smirked uncomfortably.

The two men were absurdly silent for a moment, unsure of how to respond to the young girl's confession. John tried to end the quiet since it had been he who had presented the question.

"So, you're seventeen now?" he asked, clearing his throat.

"Yes," Nadya replied, a bit snappish. "And you?"

John's eyes widened a bit; no one had ever blatantly asked his age before. "Erm—that's—" he stopped. This was a bit more uncomfortable than he had expected. Bugger.

Sherlock coughed. "Nadya, do be polite. This is John Watson. He's—"

"He's your husband, isn't he? I always knew you were gay, Mr. Sherlock."

"For God's—" John moaned, nearly shouting at the air. "Why does everyone seem to think we're—of all the—I'm not gay! Jesus."

"Sorry, Mr. Watson, but it's only a logical conclusion," Nadya chirped. "Two men, just arrived from England, they both walk side by side in conversation, one puts a decent amount of product in his hair (sorry again, Mr. Watson)," she rapped a knuckle against his head to feel the texture of his hair, "and the other is tall and thin. What else was I to think?" she asked, shrugging hopelessly.

"A bit stereotypical, but hilarious." Sherlock was snickering to himself at the girl's deductions. She grinned at him almost admiringly. John was fuming.

"It's Doctor Watson. You just remember that, are we clear?" he asked, pointing a finger at the girl. A smug smile had since taken possession of her face.

"Sorry. Doctor Watson," Nadya replied, trying not to smile furiously. "I'll keep that in mind."

"And we're here to find Sherlock's wife, who is a woman. Are we clear on that, too?" John asked, his bushy brows demanding an answer from the Russian teen.

"Okay, okay; but seriously, though, Mr. Sherlock: a wife? And a woman wife? Wow. Damn. That's crazy." Her eyes were wide with surprise.

"Nadya, enough," Sherlock scolded, using the girl's full name. She cocked her head and her dark blue eyes were like little round lumps of lapis lazuli staring eerily back into his face. 

"You know why we're here," he continued, "and you know where we need to go. Now tell me, how far to our destination?

"You need to get to that 'Four Essences' place, yeah?"

"Four Elements, yes," Sherlock replied.

Nadya scorned the correction. "Yeah, that's what I said. That's downtown Kirov, mister, and you need to stay quiet, yes? I can get you there quickly. Without any suspicions."

"Perfect. How long?"

"Twenty minutes. Probs. Maybe more if the traffic is bad."

"Then let's be off at once," Sherlock replied. The two men fell into step with the girl as she led the way out of the alley and onto a broader street lined with empty carparks and yellow, buzzing street lamps. The girl continued to smoke, the fumes alternating their route of exit between her mouth and nose.

"So," John began, "how long have you lived here, then?"

Nadya looked insulted at the question, and Sherlock could sense trouble brewing in that crimson mouth of hers.

"This place? This place is a fucking dump," she asserted, looking at the doctor with disgust. The doctor's eyes jumped when he heard her use the mother of all profanities. "I don't live here," she continued. "I took the train from Yaroslavskiy station last night and spent the day bored in one of the little hotels here. Sherlock told me where and when I would be needing to find you."

"Moscow? Wait...Yaroslavskiy station...that's...that's in Moscow. You took the train from Moscow by yourself?" John asked, both alarmed and impressed.

"Of course, I did!" she said. "I'm going to be eighteen next week. I can damn well handle myself," she hurriedly replied, stuffing loads of hair behind her pierced ears.

"Nina, do keep your mouth where it needs to be," Sherlock scolded, looking down the street carelessly. Nadya scowled.

"Mr. Sherlock, don't lecture me. I can say and do whatever the f..." she stopped midway through the f, catching Sherlock's frightening reproachful glare, "...fudge I want," she completed, her tone descending into bitter defeat. He smiled victoriously; her pretty mouth was simply too good for those words.

"Much better," he said, grinning mischievously at the girl. She grumbled and pointed toward a crosswalk up ahead, about ten metres.

"Well have to cross up there. From where we are now, it's about a twenty-minute walk. But, we can still talk some. So," she chirped, rather abruptly, "what does this woman wife look like?"

John rolled his eyes, but Sherlock produced the photograph of Irene that Moriarty had given him from his pocket. Nadya proceeded to examine it absentmindedly before the woman's beauty actually registered in her mind.

"Is that her?" she asked, poking Irene's face on the paper after blowing out a puff of smoke. Sherlock and John nodded.

"Damn it, she's hot!" the girl blurted, shooing away wayward shrouds of ashen fog in front of her face. John coughed.

"Can you not blow out in my face? For God's sake, you're not even eighteen."

The girl paid no heed, and more smoke came out of her mouth as she continued to examine the photograph.

"But wait. Let me see this? I...I know...I know this woman."

"What do you mean, you know her?" Sherlock asked, his mouth agape as his eyes narrowed at the girl. She suddenly colored a bright red to match her hair and lips, which were open with want of words. Eventually she found her tongue.

"She...yeah...I found her here for your brother," Nadya explained, her smokey words landing on both their ears and noses. "Oh damn! I should have put two and two together! He had me look for her at the beginning of the year. I found her and told your brother that she was here. That must have been how he got in touch with her and figured out what hotel she was staying at."

Sherlock laughed almost diabolically.

"That's my brother for you," he said. "Just goes to show you, John: he's not afraid of keeping secrets from me."

John chuckled and tried to remain playful.

"Yeah, I know that one all too well," he asserted, scratching the back of his head.

"Let's get to the hotel place, yeah?" Nadya interrupted, raising an eyebrow. "We do not have all the time in the world, you know," she scolded, and the two men fell in behind her as she quickened her pace and stalked off toward the crosswalk, her black heels spanking the pavement.

...

"This is the one," Nadya said. Her gray hood was now hiding her facial features, and she pointed across the street toward the hotel. It looked almost like an American office building, with glass windows for its walls and a slightly rounded square shape. It was certainly one of the better hotels in town. There was a lake behind it, full of little boats for people to rent. They bobbed incessantly in the water as a north wind began to stir the air.

"You got it from here, man?" Nadya asked, dropping her cigarette on the pavement and barbarically smothering the glowing embers with her foot.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, and John noted that his breath sounded heavy. "Yes, I think I do, Nina. Thank you for your help," he said, smiling with rare tenderness at the girl. "John, stay with her, would you? If anything goes wrong, get her out of here."

"What about you?" John asked.

"I'll be fine. Just look after this one."

There was a silence between all three of them, and Sherlock could not decide whether to stay or leave. It was...the oddest of moments. He had virtually no conception of how he would approach matters indoors, and he felt slightly uneasy about leaving John and Nadya outside.

"Remember yourself, Sherlock," John said, breaking the silence. "You've...changed. A lot. For...well, for the better, I mean. Just don't forget why you're here, mate. And I don't just mean the big reason. I mean...all the reasons."

"You mean Irene." Sherlock's eyes were tender, and John felt as though he finally understood what he had been trying to tell him for the last year. The little man threw his arms across his chest and let his teeth show through his weary lips.

"Yeah, I mean Irene. And I mean...I mean Mary. Remember Mary when you're up there, Sherlock. Make it count, mate."

Sherlock couldn't tell if the moon was glinting off of water in John's eyes because of the wind in his face or because the doctor was truly teary-eyed.

"Go get her, you smart arse."

Sherlock let his mouth curve into a solemn smile and gave a quick, determined nod, his black head of curls slightly fluttering in the wind. Turning his back, he began to walk down the grassy lawn toward a multitude of formidable opponents.

________________________________________________________

He fingered the fabricated key in his pocket, the cool metal stinging his hot fingertips. His hands trembled as he clutched it and sweat formed in his palms. His forehead was sweating as well, and he suddenly felt hot, as though he would never cool off again.

The room number he sought was approaching...

231, 233, 235, 237.

His long legs quickened their pace as he continued down the long, carpeted corridor. Paintings of Russian lakes and tsars lined the walls, and he felt as though he had stepped into a Tolstoian labyrinth.

239, 241, 243.

His heart was in his mouth as he, with his ever-twitching fingers, grasped the key and thrust it into the lock. Turning it was the next step, and yet his heart and head were booming, pulsating furiously in a frightened, synchronic dance. His hand turned the key. He almost vomited when he realized he was capable of opening the door.

He pushed gently.

It groaned and relented, opening inside as he held it.

The room was dark, the curtains were closed, and there was a light scent of cigarette smoke in the air. There wasn't much to go on: a made bed, an old styrofoam cup of tea sitting on a side table, a cracked television, and a bathrobe lying on the floor. A staircase ran from behind the side of the bed farthest away from him, and he slowly made his way across the room with plans to ascend. No one appeared to be downstairs at the moment.

"I told you not to follow me," came the voice that he had not heard in seven months. It came from the top of the stairs and as it reached his ears his head felt light. Almost sick. Feverish.

"And I told you not to pity me." He almost couldn't say it, and yet somehow, he still felt that the slow push-and-pull of their never-ending game was still alive. He had to settle the score. Slowly ascending the soft, almost bouncy stairs with noiseless steps, he had a hard time wrapping his mind around the fact that he was finally here.

"I knew you would make it eventually. Took longer than I had anticipated, but...well. You're here. I suppose that's what matters, isn't it?" Was that a hurt tone? Anger? Frustration? He had not been the one to cause it—God knew he hadn't been. He felt that same annoyance rising in his chest that he had felt on certain occasions when they had lived together.

"Why did you leave?" How that question had chipped away at his skull!

"For more reasons than you would know." It was an instantaneous reply.

"Miss Adler—"

"Still Miss Adler, am I? Even now?"

He rounded the steps and finally glimpsed the interior of the loft. She had her back to him, looking out the window and studying John and Nadya squabbling unimportantly on the lawn. She must have seen him arrive. Maybe she had been watching for him all night. 

Her hair was long—longer than he had ever seen it before. It fell further than her waist and tapered out at the small of her back. Her arms were resting...not on the window sill, but on something else...

She turned from her place at the window and looked at him. As she did so, he nearly fell over with the emotions flying around in his head.

Her hands rested on her stomach, which had tripled in size.

Irene Adler was pregnant.


End file.
